


on the borderlands of the wild

by copperwings



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hiking, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Pheromones, Rimming, brief mentions of unspecified past abuse, but Keith is a hybrid, discussions about consent and free will, sprained ankle, this is not a verse where ABO is the norm, wolfdogs as pets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-01 18:58:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16770946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperwings/pseuds/copperwings
Summary: In retrospect, Shiro should have canceled as well. He could be sitting at home playing video games and eating pizza right now, but instead he’s here, stuck on a small stone ledge with no way to climb up or down. Below him, a deadly steep fall awaits, and above him the edge of the ravine looms a few feet beyond his reach with nothing but eroding soil to grab onto.On top of that, his ankle is busted.-or: the fic in which Shiro falls into a ravine while hiking and is rescued by a strange man who lives in the wilderness with six wolfdogs.





	1. you were the guide

**Author's Note:**

> There are some ABO elements in this fic, but I didn't follow any established "rules" for ABO verse. This is purely self-indulgent.

As Shiro crouches on the small ledge and looks up at the edge of the ravine he’s somehow supposed to reach, he has a fleeting thought that going hiking alone might not have been his best idea. Especially this late in the season when there’s hardly anyone else around. He spotted a few other cars parked at the beginning of the trail, but a light dusting of fallen leaves on the vehicles told Shiro that their owners are probably at least a day ahead of him on the trail and hence not here to help him out of his predicament.

Matt was supposed to come with him, but then his father was carted to the hospital with a minor stroke and he had to cancel. Shiro sighs and leans back, grimacing as his right ankle sends a sharp jolt of pain up his leg.

In retrospect, Shiro should have canceled as well. He could be sitting at home playing video games and eating pizza right now, but instead he’s here, stuck on a small stone ledge with no way to climb up or down. Below him, a deadly steep fall awaits, and above him the edge of the ravine looms a few feet beyond his reach with nothing but eroding soil to grab onto.

On top of that, his ankle is busted.

He can feel pain radiating up his calf, and he doesn’t dare take his hiking boot off because if the swelling is bad, he might not be able to get his foot back in anymore. It doesn’t feel like anything is broken, so it’s most likely just a torn ligament. He should be able to limp back to the car, if he was able to climb out of the ravine.

Looking up, he sees the spot where the edge crumbled beneath his feet, landing him in his current situation. The rainy season must have eroded the wall of the ravine and when he trampled too close to the edge it gave in under his weight.

“You should fucking look where you’re going, Shirogane,” he mutters to himself. But he wasn’t looking, because he was too busy posting a scenic photo on instagram. And because of that, his only means of calling for help currently sits somewhere at the bottom of the ravine.

The situation is starting to look worse by the second. Shiro closes his eyes for a moment and breathes in and out slowly to calm down. He has gone hiking before and military training has blessed him with ample survival skills, so he doesn’t count himself among the dead just yet.

His backpack is securely strapped to him, so he has food and water for several days. However, the small ledge doesn’t give much wiggle room, so he can’t get into his sleeping bag. When the night comes, the best he can do is spread the sleeping bag over himself and hope that the following night is warmer than the previous. Hypothermia is a bitch he doesn’t want to invite along on this trip.

Shiro shifts and grimaces as a scatter of pebbles dislodges beneath him and falls into the abyss. This ledge is the most unhelpful place in the goddamn wilderness. There’s nothing to make a fire with, he can’t settle comfortably and every now and then a shower of sand and rocks rains down on him as the wall of the ravine crumbles further. “No landslides, please,” Shiro says, glancing up at the edge. “The situation is shitty enough as it is.”

Next time he looks up, his eyes focus on a few dry tree roots, poking out below the edge now that the soil around them has rained on him.

If he can stand up, he might be able to reach the roots. Roots are usually sturdy and won’t budge even if the soil around them slides away. He flexes the fingers of his prosthetic and wraps them around his left wrist to see if they still function. The grip is as strong as ever, and he’s done enough pull-ups to know the arm can sustain his weight.

Shiro estimates the distance to the closest root and then the distance to the bottom of the ravine. If he causes a landslide it’s going to be a long tumble down.

His best bet is to sit still and hope someone passes him on the trail in the next few days.

-

By nightfall Shiro is going crazy. There is nothing to do and his ankle throbs even when he doesn’t move. He’s not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. He tries to elevate his foot but maneuvering in the limited space is impossible, so he gives up.

He shouts for help several times, but only echoes from across the ravine answer his call.

The tree roots above are starting to look like a way out. Shiro glances at them and then toward the bottom. Shadows are creeping up the sides of the ravine and he can’t see all the way down in the darkening night.

Well, if the roots aren’t his way out, the bottom of the ravine most likely will be. Shiro grimaces at the thought.

Awful as the thought of falling is, he can’t sit still on this ledge and think about the possibility of no one passing him by for days. He needs to try something.

He manages to maneuver himself to a standing position. There are no proper handholds around the ledge, and as he reaches up he realizes the closest roots are just out of his reach. He will have to make a jump for it.

Shiro bounces lightly on the ledge, careful to not put too much weight on his injured foot. The rock feels solid under him, but who’s to say it won’t break off if he starts doing gymnastics on it? He might only get one shot at this.

This haphazard self-rescue attempt is probably a worse idea than going hiking alone, which is saying something.

He contemplates leaving his backpack behind, but if his escape plan is a success he’s going to need his supplies to make it back to the car. It’s over a day’s hike; even longer with an injured foot. So the backpack stays on, even if it means extra weight he needs to drag over the edge.

He stands precariously on the ledge, leaning against the wall that keeps crumbling under his touch. He’s very pointedly _not_ thinking about the abyss right behind his back.

He reaches up, preparing for his leap of faith, when movement from above catches his eye. Someone is moving along the trail.

“Help!” Shiro shouts, waving a hand and hoping whoever is above him will spot him.

His voice dies in his throat when he sees a pair of curious yellow eyes looking down at him.

_A wolf._ Shiro freezes.

The gray animal snuffles and steps closer to the edge, causing sand to rain on Shiro. The wolf tilts its head as if assessing Shiro’s situation and lets out a small yelp. It stands staring at him a few more seconds, then steps back and vanishes from sight.

Shiro exhales deep, letting out the breath he was holding while the wolf regarded him. He doesn’t think the wolf will try to jump down to attack him, but it may lie in wait if he manages to climb out. Injured prey makes for an easy catch.

Shiro weighs his options. Sitting on the ledge through the cold night, falling to his death or climbing out to a wolf waiting for a snack? None of these sounds appealing. Eventually he decides to try to reach the roots. Perhaps the wolf is gone, or he can scare it off.

Shiro measures the distance to the thickest roots poking out of the wall and is about to pounce when the wolf returns.

And this time it brings friends.

Instead of one pair of yellow eyes gleaming above him, Shiro counts six.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Shiro groans. The universe must really hate his guts.

He stares up at the gleaming row of eyes. The animals stand on the edge and look at him. One of them lets out a high-pitched whine that gives Shiro pause.

“What, are you worried about your snack falling into the ravine?” Shiro asks.

“I think they’re just worried, period,” a voice calls from above. “Are you okay?”

Shiro leans back to see the source of the voice and almost falls backward from the weight of his backpack. He grabs at the soil and rocks wildly and causes another miniature landslide that covers his boots in sand.

Once he’s regained his balance he looks up, blinking dust particles out of his eyes. “Hello?” he asks. “Please, I need a little help here!”

The wolves move aside and a man steps to the edge, peering down at Shiro. In the remaining golden glow from behind the horizon all Shiro can see is a fair face, a hood-covered tousle of black hair and the sleeve of a dark red jacket.

The man estimates the distance. “Are you badly hurt? I mean, can you hang in there for a bit more? I have rope but I have to go get it. Might take a while.”

“I can manage,” Shiro says, eyeing the strange man who apparently runs with wolves. “Are these wolves—with you?”

The man grins, and in the fading light the expression is wolf-like. “Wolfdogs, not wolves.” He whistles and one of the animals comes up to him. “Kosmo, sit. Stay.” He looks at Shiro. “Stay put, I’ll go get the rope. I’m leaving Kosmo to keep you company. And to make sure I find this spot again.”

Shiro looks at the massive wolfdog and doesn’t know if he feels reassured or unsettled. “Uh. Sure. I’ll be here,” he jokes lamely.

The following hour is the most bizarre experience of Shiro’s life. He stands on the rocky ledge in the gathering darkness, leaning on the wall of the ravine and occasionally glancing up to see that the massive shadow of the wolfdog is still looming above him.

“It’s like I’m guarded by a fucking forest spirit,” Shiro snorts.

The animal tilts its head to the side as if it understands what he’s saying.

Shiro searches for doglike features in the animal’s face and doesn’t find many. It looks so much like a wolf, but it behaves like a dog; sitting where it was told to sit and patiently waiting for its owner to return.

Although it feels like weeks, the digital watch on his wrist tells him it’s only been about an hour when a whistle sounds from above. The wolfdog disappears in a scatter of sand, leaving Shiro staring up at the crumbling edge. It’s almost completely dark now, and soon he spots the beam of a flashlight sweeping the trail above.

“You still there?” The hooded head emerges over the edge. The man flashes the light at the coil of rope hanging off his forearm. “I’m gonna tie this to a tree and then lower the other end to you.”

Several wolfdogs pace around the edge of the ravine. Shiro catches glimpses of occasional tails swishing, a few pairs of curious eyes glancing at him and then finally, a length of rope snakes down over the edge.

The beam of the flashlight blinds him for a second, and when Shiro regains his vision the rope is hanging within his reach. “Can you pull yourself up or do I need to pull on the rope?”

“I think my ankle is sprained, but I can manage?” Shiro says. There are knots tied along the rope for easier grip, and it’s not a long way up. It’s no worse than climbing a rope at the gym, although at the gym there are mattresses to break his fall if he fails. He doubts the ravine’s embrace will be as forgiving.

Shiro grabs the rope and pulls himself up until he can get the rope between his thighs. After that it’s easy to hoist himself from one knot to the next, although soil and rocks keep coming loose off the edge as the rope digs into the eroding ground. Shiro climbs up almost blindly in a shower of sand and pebbles, and once he gets over the edge a strong hand drags him away from the crumbling danger zone.

Shiro stumbles down on the ground and crawls farther from the edge, breathing heavily. His heart is racing in a crazed adrenaline rush, and the world tilts on its axis for a second so he lies down on his back as far as his backpack allows him. He leans on the backpack and stares up at the dark sky where a few stars are blinking slowly.

Now that the situation is over he becomes aware of the freezing temperature and then, in a rush, how close to dying he just came. The thought echoes in his head, crashing down like a hammer. Shiro trembles, gasping for air, when the flashlight points at his face.

The stranger kneels beside him. “Everything okay?” His voice is low, worried.

“Shock,” Shiro manages. “Probably shock,” he amends. “I don’t know. I feel cold.”

“Are you afraid of dogs?”

“No,” Shiro says.

A whistle cuts the air. “Kosmo, c’mere.” The massive dog appears, and after a short command lies down beside Shiro. “He is going to keep you warm.”

“Thank you,” Shiro says. He expects the man to retreat, but instead he kneels on Shiro’s other side. “Thank you so much,” Shiro repeats, because he can’t think of anything else to say. His teeth are chattering. The night air is cold, but it’s not _that_ cold, so he must be in shock.

The man reaches behind Shiro’s head. “I’m gonna grab your sleeping bag.”

Shiro feels the tug and pull from the backpack, and the next thing he knows he’s covered in his sleeping bag and there is a warm furry dog pressed against his side.

Shiro stares at the slow-blinking stars while the shivers gradually fade away. This is the strangest fucking night of his life.

He looks to the side and spots his savior rummaging around the nearby copse of trees. Shiro can see the moving beam of light but not much else. The man soon reemerges with the flashlight held between his teeth and carrying an armful of thick branches. Soon he’s got a fire kindling in the middle of the sandy trail, a safe distance from the ravine. While he works on feeding the fire, Shiro watches curiously the way he interacts with the five dogs circling around him. It’s obvious the animals adore him. His hood shades his face, but as the firelight grows stronger, Shiro can see that he’s extremely good-looking, in that ragged lumberjack kind of way.

Once the shivers stop and Shiro finds a resemblance of a peaceful existence again, he sits up and unbuckles the straps of his backpack from around his chest and waist. He wraps the sleeping bag around him and settles more comfortably against the warmth of the wolfdog. “Who are you, wolf-man?” he asks.

In response, he gets a fleeting glance and an amused grin. “I’m Keith.”

“Shiro,” Shiro offers in return. “Thank you for saving my ass.”

“You’re welcome. You said your ankle is broken?” Keith asks. “Can you get closer to the fire so I can take a look at it?”

Shiro shuffles closer, dragging the sleeping bag with him. Kosmo follows and flops down beside Keith, who scratches him absently behind the ears. The rest of the pack is following their moves from the other side of the fire, casting curious looks at the new human among them.

Keith unties Shiro’s shoelaces with deft fingers and pulls the shoe off.

Shiro hisses as the shoe comes loose. “Fucking _fuck_.”

Keith peels Shiro’s sock down, revealing an ugly sight. The ankle is red and swollen, and there are angry creases from where the shoe pressed relentlessly into his skin through the long hours after his fall.

Keith clicks his tongue. “Looks like a sprain.” Shiro hisses again as Keith’s fingers examine the ankle, poking and prodding gently.

“I brought a first-aid kit. I can bandage it for you if you want?” Keith looks up from the ankle.

Shiro forgets to breathe for a second, because the glow of the fire paints Keith absolutely gorgeous.

He finds his voice after a pause that’s too long for a normal conversation. “Uh. Sure. Thank you so much, for everything.” He’s not sure how many times he’s thanked Keith already, but no number seems adequate.

Shiro hisses through his teeth while Keith wraps a compression bandage around the injured ankle and then slaps an instant cold pack on it.

“So. What happened?” Keith asks once he’s tended to the ankle and propped the foot up to rest on Shiro’s backpack.

Shiro sighs, settling down on the ground, pulling the sleeping bag tighter around himself. “I didn’t watch where I was going. Walked too close to the edge, I think it must have eroded from the rain earlier this week. Anyway, suddenly I find myself sliding down into the ravine. I got lucky and the ledge broke my fall. Well, it also broke my foot, but I guess it could have been a lot worse. But I was pretty much stuck there all day, so I’m really glad you happened to pass by.”

“Don’t you have a phone?” Keith asks.

Shiro grimaces. “Yeah. It’s somewhere down there right now.” He points a thumb toward the edge of the ravine.

“Ah.” Keith nods. “Well, I have a sat phone in my cabin, but I think we better wait until morning to trek there. It’s off-trail and I don’t want you to bust your other ankle as well.”

Shiro looks at him incredulously. “Your cabin? You mean you _live_ out here?” How does one come to live in the wilderness with a pack of wolfdogs?

“Yeah. I never liked it in the city,” Keith says and pokes the fire with a stick.

Shiro examines Keith’s features in the orange glow. With his hood pushed back, he looks younger than Shiro, with dark eyes and fair skin. His black hair falls past his shoulders at the back and unruly strands partially veil his face. The hair looks like he cut it himself, possibly with a knife. He’s wearing a worn-out red jacket and army-style gray pants with black boots.

Shiro likes to think he doesn’t have a distinct _type_ , but if he does, Keith falls under the definition. His outfit and hair may be all over the place, but the messy hair frames a gorgeous face, with strong eyebrows contrasting the soft line of his mouth. _Definitely_ Shiro’s type.

“Anyway. We can get to the cabin in the morning and then you can call for help.” Keith looks up and Shiro quickly averts his eyes to not get caught staring.

“Sounds good.”

They get ready to sleep beside the fire. Keith settles on the ground on top of a thin blanket, and Shiro wants to ask how Keith is going to fare in the coldness of the night without a sleeping bag. Then Keith lies down, and the lack of a sleeping bag makes a lot more sense as the wolfdogs immediately surround him from all sides until Keith is pretty much covered in fur. It’s mesmerizing to watch, the way they crowd him and fall asleep in a pile.

Kosmo, commanded to lie down beside Shiro, whines at the sight of the others sleeping on Keith. As the fire slowly dies down Shiro is glad Kosmo was told to stay, because the warmth pressing against his back is comforting. Between the wolfdog, the glowing embers and his sleeping bag, he feels nice and toasty.

That is, until the morning comes and he has to crawl out of the sleeping bag.

“Jesus, it’s freezing,” Shiro mutters as he sits up and pushes the sleeping bag down.

In the morning light, he checks his prosthetic and the rest of his body for injuries. He has minor scrapes on the palm of his left hand and scatters of small holes decorate his pants, but aside from the ankle he is mostly unharmed.

Keith is nowhere to be seen, but his bag and five of the six the wolfdogs are still lounging around so he’s probably not very far.

Shiro manages to get up and test his foot while five pairs of golden-brown eyes follow his every move. The injured ankle sends sharp spikes of pain up his leg when he tries to put weight on it, but the bandage and a night’s rest have made things somewhat better. He takes a few tentative steps around the makeshift campsite and limps to the nearest shrubs to take care of business. He wants to piss down into the stupid ravine as a revenge, but maybe it’s best not to tempt fate by going near the traitorous edge again.

Shiro sits by the dead campfire, picking leaves and pine needles off the sock covering the injured foot, when Keith returns with the sixth dog and a strong-looking tree branch.

“Morning,” Shiro greets.

“Hey,” Keith says. He sits down across from Shiro and starts hacking the branch with his knife, cutting off smaller twigs along the length.

Shiro watches him as he works. In the daylight, Keith’s hair doesn’t look jet black; it has a slight tint of reddish brown when the bleak morning sun hits it through the trees.

Keith looks up, and like his hair, his eyes have lost the darkest shadows of the nighttime. Shiro finds himself staring into steely eyes that in the dappled sunlight take a grayish purple hue. He looks breathtaking.

“Here.”

Shiro snaps out of his trance when Keith hands him the branch.

Keith folds the knife and pockets it. “It’s not exactly a crutch but it might make walking easier.”

“Oh. Yeah, thanks.” Shiro grabs the makeshift crutch. The ends are roughly cut, and he picks a few splinters off before fitting his fingers around the end.

“How’s the foot?” Keith looks down at the bandaged ankle.

“I think it’s a bit better, but it still hurts to step on.”

“You ready to hike?”

Shiro grimaces. “No, but I don’t think I have a choice.”

Keith packs his belongings in his small bag while Shiro rolls up the sleeping bag and straps it to his backpack. Keith offers to carry Shiro’s belongings, but he refuses. Keith has done enough already.

The first fifteen minutes of hiking are the worst. The injured ankle expresses displeasure at every step, but the pain soon dulls down to a numb throb. Shiro is not sure if it’s a good sign or a bad sign.

Even with the pain dulled it’s slow going. They stop frequently so Shiro can rest his foot. During one of these breaks, Shiro munches on a granola bar and studies Keith as he sits cross-legged and pets one of his dogs. Shiro is curious, because Keith doesn’t seem like the talkative type, but he doesn’t fit the image of a misanthrope hermit either. 

Most of their trek goes by in silence. The wolfdogs pounce here and there and occasionally vanish into the shrubbery, only to return to Keith’s side for a moment before running off again. There seems to be a wordless understanding between them, a bond that goes beyond their visible interactions.

During the narrow stretches of their journey, Shiro lags behind, hobbling along with his stick and grimacing every now and then when his ankle reminds him of its painful existence. However, whenever the terrain allows for them to walk side by side, Keith offers himself as another crutch to lean on. Shiro wants to say no, but it makes walking easier, not to mention faster.

During those moments when they advance like a strange three-legged man-contraption with a cane, Keith is so close that Shiro can smell the forest and campfire on him, and underneath it, a musky scent the like of which he’s never encountered before. It smells better than any cologne.

He concentrates on the uneven ground beneath his feet to not lean in and inhale the scent like some creepster.

“We’re here,” Keith says as they step into a small clearing.

The wolfdogs scatter across the open area and make their way into a sheltered wooden den that hugs the side of a log cabin. To the right, a small patch of land has been turned over for winter. The small house at the center of the clearing looks like it sprouted from the ground; the assembly is crude but overall it looks well-built.

The first glance inside the cabin confirms Shiro’s initial thought, because even though the surfaces are raw and rough, the structure looks strong enough to withstand anything the seasons might throw at it. It’s just one room with a fireplace on one wall and a small window on the opposite wall. The furniture is assembled of pieces of wood or logs and aside from sandpaper-smoothing all surfaces are unfinished. A narrow table is attached to the window-side wall with a log bench beside it, and across the room by the fireplace a bed of piled wood pallets covers a big chunk of the floorspace.

Shiro looks around and lowers his backpack on the floor. “Wow. Did you build all this yourself?” He sits down on the bench and props his foot up. If his ankle was able to talk it would be groaning in relief at the resting position.

Keith nods. “Yeah.”

Shiro gapes at the log beams supporting the ceiling. “How?”

“The same way anyone does anything these days,” Keith replies. “I googled it.”

Shiro looks at him, incredulous.

“What, you think I grew up with wolves?” Keith flashes him a teasing grin. “I went to high school about a hundred miles from here, so I’m not like a barefoot wildling or anything.”

Shiro chuckles. “Didn’t think that you were. It’s just… unusual. That you live here by yourself.”

“So I’ve heard.” Keith drops his backpack near the door and paces across the room to unplug a phone from a small power generator. “I would have brought this with me last night but since I rarely use it the battery was almost dead. Here. You can call for help now. I also get shitty and expensive wi-fi through the sat connection so if you prefer to send a dm to someone online that can also be arranged.”

Shiro takes the phone and considers his options. Calling an air ambulance to lift him out of here is going to cost him his left kidney. He’s pretty sure his insurance doesn’t cover it, especially in a situation that isn’t even close to being life-threatening.

“Do you have a map of the area?” Shiro asks, lowering the phone on the table.

“I can give you the coordinates of this place,” Keith says.

“No, I mean like… how far is the spot where I parked my car?” Shiro makes a vague gesture with his hand to where he assumes his car is, even though it’s probably not even close to the right direction.

“Well, I have a laptop,” Keith offers. “If google maps works for you? The sat connection is shit so it may take a while for the page to load though.”

Shiro smiles as he accepts the small laptop Keith hands him. The contrast between the rudimentary cabin and the luxury electronics is stark. “So you live off the grid but have a laptop and a phone?”

Keith gives him an unimpressed look. “Yeah, ‘cause I’m not an idiot. I recognize the benefits of society. Plus even though I’m partially self-sustained on occasion I need to order food and supplies. Or I need to call the vet if the dogs get sick. Oh, and the electronics _really_ come in handy when I rescue injured hikers who lost their phones and need to call for help.” He raises his eyebrows like a challenge.

Shiro grimaces and sets the laptop on his thighs. “Okay, fair enough.” He navigates the map to show the location of his car at the end of the trail and then turns to Keith. “Can you put in the coordinates or show me where we are?”

Keith crouches by the bench and types in the coordinates. Shiro can feel the clack-clack of the keyboard against his thighs. He inhales and then freezes.

Again, there’s that strange scent that he can’t place. There’s something untamed about it; it reminds Shiro of unexplored corners of the remote wilderness.

Keith’s hair looks soft. Shiro wants to tangle his fingers in it and tug; not hard, but hard enough to make Keith look at him. The urge is like a tingling in his fingertips and the thought of pulling Keith’s hair sends a rush of blood to his ears. Shiro grabs the edge of the bench to keep from doing anything stupid.

It’s baffling, because even though Keith is good-looking, the reaction is unlike anything Shiro’s ever had before.

As soon as Keith steps away, the urge disappears, although a strange warmth that feels like a blush lingers on Shiro’s face. He hopes it’s not visible, but he doesn’t look at Keith in case his distracted state is obvious.

On the screen, the map informs him that the location is outside the current coverage area for walking, but the distance ruler in the bottom-right corner gives him an estimate that doesn’t look promising.

Shiro squints at the map. The hiking trail is partially visible in the satellite image and following it he finds the ravine that put a stop to his hike and almost ended his life. He points at it. “This is where you found me, right?”

He realizes too late that to answer his question Keith needs to lean closer again.

Shiro tries to hold his breath while Keith bends to examine the map. “Yeah. It’s about half an hour from here, and then maybe a day’s hike to where the trail begins. That is, unless you have an injured ankle in which case it will take at least twice as long.” He glances at Shiro. “You’re not planning on walking back, are you?”

Shiro inhales to form an answer and is again flooded with the urge to touch Keith. He opens his mouth, then closes it again, unable to find words. He stares at Keith, who stares back at him with an expression of disapproval on his face. Shiro wants to kiss the look away. He blinks, then looks down at the laptop.

_What the fuck is going on here?_

“Are you okay?” Keith asks, worried. “Maybe you have a fever?” He brushes the back of his hand on Shiro’s forehead and Shiro jumps back like he’s been electrocuted.

“No, no fever. I don’t have a fever,” Shiro says, rushed. “I’m okay, aside from the obvious.” He gestures wildly at his bandaged foot.

Keith crosses his arms over his chest. “If you say so. But either way, limping back to your car is not a good idea.”

Keith steps back, and Shiro tries to breathe normally again. He knows it’s not a good idea. It’s probably in the top three of his worst ideas ever, along with _going hiking alone_ and _not looking where he’s going near the edge of a ravine_.

“I know it’s not,” Shiro admits. “But my insurance won’t cover a helicopter ride in a situation that’s not life-threatening.”

Keith looks at him incredulously. “But if I hadn’t found you, it would have been life-threatening. You could have fallen or frozen to death.”

“Yeah, but in that situation I wasn’t able to call anyone,” Shiro says. It’s a bizarre limbo where his life was in danger but he couldn’t call for help, and now that he _can_ he’s not in danger anymore. “I mean, I could call my friend Matt and explain the situation, but I doubt he’d be able to help me much,” Shiro says, casting a sad glance at the satellite map on the screen. The image shows a whole lot of unforgiving terrain for someone with a leg injury. “He’s my best friend but I’m not sure our friendship could take it if he had to pull me all the way back to my car on a stretcher.”

Keith nods and bites his lip, deep in thought. Shiro watches the tug and gnaw of his teeth and the warm rush of blood returns to his cheeks. He looks away.

“Well. You could stay here?” Keith suggests after a brief moment of silence.

Shiro turns to look at Keith so quickly that something in his neck pops audibly. “What?”

“It’s not like I have a strict schedule for you to inconvenience,” Keith says like it’s self-explanatory. “And if it’s a mild sprain it shouldn’t take more than two or three days of rest for you to be able to walk on it again.”

Shiro swallows. The offer is better for his wallet than calling a helicopter, and also infinitely better for his friendship than making Matt carry him out of here. But staying here means staying in close quarters with Keith, and judging by the reaction his body is currently having over a three-foot distance, it’s going to be a wild ride.

Maybe he can sleep outside in the den with the wolfdogs.

“I, uh,” Shiro says. “I don’t know. I don’t want to impose. And what if it’s _not_ a mild sprain—”

Words abandon him as Keith crouches beside the propped-up foot. “Well, let’s see what the situation is,” he says matter-of-factly.

The sock covering the bandage is dirty and torn from dragging across the forest floor. Keith removes it and starts unraveling the bandage. The sensation of pressure disappears as the tightly wrapped gauze comes loose, and the cool air of the cabin feels nice on his skin.

The ankle is still swollen and Shiro grimaces at the purplish bruise forming on the outer edge, but despite walking on it for a long while in the morning, it doesn’t feel as bad as it did last night.

Keith grabs the foot, twisting and turning it here and there. It hurts, but the pain is drowned by another sensation: Keith’s cool fingers sliding against heated skin. Shiro bites back a groan that’s not caused by pain, and then closes his eyes for a second because he finds that he likes the sight of Keith kneeling at his feet. He likes it too much.

He doesn’t have any servant or nurse kinks, at least that he knows of. So, why does he find Keith tending to his foot so damn hot? Shiro swallows to get rid of a nonexistent lump in his throat and blinks at the ceiling.

“It looks better than it did last night,” Keith observes. “I think the best option is to bandage it again, keep the foot propped up as much as possible and pop a few painkillers to help with the swelling.”

His hand rests on the injured foot and it’s like every touch receptor in Shiro’s body is hyper-fixated on that exact spot.

“Mhmm,” Shiro says to keep his mouth from forming any words he might regret later.

When he’s done wrapping the ankle in fresh gauze, Keith hands Shiro a few painkillers and pours water from a jug with a filter installed. After digging around a wooden chest in the corner, Keith also chucks an instant cold pack at Shiro, who fumbles to catch it.

“I’m gonna check on the dogs,” Keith says. “You can send messages to your family and friends on the laptop if you need to.”

Shiro feels like he can’t breathe properly until Keith is outside the cabin.

When the door closes after Keith, Shiro cracks the tube inside the cold pack and sets it on his ankle. “Get it together, Shirogane,” he mutters.

He spends a few minutes composing a message to Matt, explaining why he won’t be answering his phone in the near future. Looking at the message, he shakes his head at how ridiculous it sounds. _Nearly fell off a cliff, lost my phone and sprained my ankle, got saved by a hermit guy who lives in a cabin in the woods with six wolfdogs._ It has all the makings of a ridiculous B-list movie.

He leaves out the part where Keith’s vicinity makes Shiro want to kiss his skin raw.


	2. leading me down strange paths

Keith comes back in and brings along a whiff of smoke. “I’m heating food in the firepit outside, you want some?”

Shiro reaches for his backpack. “Only if I get to contribute to the meal.” He doesn’t want to get any more indebted to Keith than he already is.

Keith offers to help him limp outside, but Shiro hastily shoves some food supplies at him and says he’ll manage himself out. He uses the makeshift crutch and wobbles outside, a fresh wool sock covering the toes of his injured foot so they don’t freeze off.

Shiro doesn’t know at which point they started behaving like they reached a consensus about him staying. Well, in all honesty, Shiro isn’t doing anything to _reject_ the idea either. No, he’s doing the exact opposite: he sits by the firepit outside, enjoying the heat of the flames and the bowl of soup Keith hands to him.

It looks like he’s very much staying.

The wolfdogs sit by him and give him puppy eyes to get scraps until Keith growls at them to back off. The growl is very wolf-like, and Keith actually bares his teeth at the pack until they scatter off and retreat to the other side of the pit.

“They’re animals,” Keith explains as if sensing Shiro finds this kind of behavior odd. “They don’t understand language aside from a few one-word commands, but as pack animals they understand hierarchy and body language. I’m simply communicating to them in a way they understand, instead of trying to force them to understand my kind of communication.”

Shiro nods. “That makes sense. But I have to ask, how did you end up with so many wolfdogs anyway?”

Keith sighs. “They’re rescues, all of them. I first got Kosmo when I’d just built the cabin. An acquaintance who works at a shelter I used to volunteer at, he sent me a message about this wolfdog that was about to be euthanized.” He glances at Shiro and looks sour. “People think it’s badass to get a wolfdog, and they get a wolfdog puppy. At first it’s small and cute and they can work with small and cute, y’know? But then it grows bigger and bigger and gets more difficult to handle because let’s face it—it is part wolf, so it has part wolf instincts… so people give up, abandon the dog somewhere or leave it at a shelter. Because they thought it was so _cool_ to get a wolfdog but didn’t bother to research it before getting one.”

“That’s really stupid.”

“Tell me about it.” Keith rolls his eyes at the sky. “But I guess my place is kind of seen as a wildlife resort to wolfdogs now, because they keep contacting me whenever there’s another _hopeless_ case in the shelter. So now I have these six.” He looks at the pack and whistles. “Kosmo.”

Kosmo gets up and jogs over to Keith. “Kosmo’s the only one who listens to me,” Keith says, petting the animal’s head. “The rest of them are boneheaded as fuck and that’s why I growl at them.” He grins affectionately.

“I heard you called one of them Yorak when we were walking to the cabin, what are the rest of their names?” Shiro asks.

“That’s Yorak,” Keith says, pointing. “Beside him from left to right: Red, Blade, Atlas and Lion.”

“Who names a wolf _Lion_?” Shiro asks, laughing.

“Well, he has the mane to match,” Keith replies.

Lion’s mane is nowhere near an actual lion’s mane, but on an animal that otherwise looks like a wolf it does stick out. Shiro grins as Lion rolls over and looks at them from his upside-down angle like he knows they’re talking about him.

“Now he just looks like he has a neckbeard,” Shiro observes.

Keith bursts out laughing and Shiro’s heart starts pounding like he’s going into cardiac arrest.

Keith is fucking gorgeous when he laughs. His face lights up and he throws his head back just slightly, revealing a long and slender neck. Shiro hastily gulps down some soup and looks away, searching for something else to concentrate on. He pats his pockets and then remembers that his phone sits somewhere at the bottom of the ravine. He sighs in frustration. He needs something to look at, or else his eyes are going to wander back to Keith all the time. The weird urge to touch him isn’t as overwhelming outside, but it’s still there, and Keith’s laughter doesn’t help the issue at all.

“So what do you do out here for fun?” Shiro asks, cautiously holding out a hand for one of the wolfdogs to sniff as it wanders closer. He’s not sure if this is Atlas or Blade, because they look a lot like each other.

Keith shrugs. “I read books and play guitar, go out on hikes with the dogs, that kind of stuff.”

“You play guitar?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s cool.” Shiro wants to ask Keith to play something, but that would give him the perfect excuse to stare, so he bites back the request and shoves the mental image of Keith with a guitar somewhere to the back of his mind.

Instead, he asks about living in the wild throughout the changing seasons. That seems like a safe subject to discuss. Keith talks about past winters and training his dogs and Shiro listens, mesmerized at how different lives they lead.

“I tried to train them to pull a sled one winter, thought it would make supply runs easier,” Keith says, snorting. “It didn’t go over so well.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. The sled ended up in the fireplace.” Keith casts a sour glance at the dogs. “I told you they are boneheaded.”

The sun peaks and begins its afternoon slide across the sky. Shiro scratches the back of his neck and finds pine needles and sand under his collar.

_Gross._

“Do you have a washbasin or something?” Shiro asks. “I just realized I haven’t washed in two days and I spent yesterday in a shower of soil and sand, which doesn’t really help the situation.”

“Sure.”

Shiro limps inside to get his small towel, a washcloth and bar soap along with a change of clothes. When he comes back, Keith leads him to the back of the cabin, where two small wooden structures stand attached to the wall.

“That’s the outhouse,” Keith says, pointing at the one standing in the far corner. “And this is the washroom.” He opens the door and lights an oil lamp hanging on a hook inside. “I heated up the fireplace yesterday, so the water should be at least lukewarm. But I make no promises, it might just as well be freezing.”

Shiro fully expected to only get freezing cold water, so lukewarm is a bonus.

Keith closes the door and leaves Shiro alone. He looks around in the dimly-lit space. The system is genius. The washroom is placed so it shares a wall with the fireplace, and a big insulated water container is built against the wall, drawing and storing heat from the fire. Besides the water container, the only items in the small space are some empty buckets, a small wooden stool and a drain in the floor that, concluding from the draft of air, leads outside.

Shiro scoops water from the container into a bucket and dips a finger in it. It’s not warm, but it’s not freezing cold either, and it will only get colder in the bucket if he waits much longer.

He strips his clothes, unties the bandage around his ankle and washes himself hastily with the washcloth and soap. He finishes by pouring the entire bucket of water on his head. It’s miles away from a hot shower, but he feels refreshed.

He tries to redo the bandage, but his prosthetic does better with strength and not so well on accuracy, so the bandage slips and slides and refuses to cooperate. He gives up and pulls the sock on his foot without the bandage. Perhaps Keith can redo it.

Inside the cabin, when Keith’s fingers slide on his skin, Shiro realizes he could have bandaged the ankle himself. Clearly his brain is conspiring against him—it made him give up way too easily, just to feel Keith’s touch again. _Stupid brain._

Shiro looks at Keith’s head, bent over his ankle as he’s neatly redoing the compression bandage, and the urge to touch Keith’s hair returns tenfold. Shiro grips the edge of the bench and thinks about cracked bones and rotting carcasses and doing his taxes—anything to stop thinking about Keith’s stupid shiny hair and the way his fingers feel on Shiro’s skin.

Keith sits back on his heels and smiles, holding up the sock. “All done. You can put the sock on now, or do you need me to do that too?”

Shiro realizes he’s being mocked, and he snatches the sock and pulls it over the bandage. His ankle sends a jolt of pain up his leg to remind him to be gentle, but the ache is less prominent now, like a disgruntled sigh instead of a pained scream.

-

The cabin gets colder as the evening advances, so Keith piles wood in the fireplace and lights it. Shiro sets his sleeping bag on the floor near the fireplace and plops down on it, hoisting his injured foot to rest on his backpack. Keith wanders around the room for a moment, and Shiro tries not to follow him with his eyes. As the room heats up, it amplifies Keith’s presence, as if reminding Shiro that everything in here is all Keith; his fingerprints on every surface and his scent on every item within reach. Shiro stares into the flames and tries to shake off his hyper-awareness of Keith, but it’s difficult when his ears tune in for Keith’s every step against the wooden floor.

Then Keith has the audacity to grab a guitar case from under the table. Shiro watches as he opens the case and pulls the instrument out by the neck. He holds the guitar with slender fingers, strumming the strings as if to test the sound. Keith’s brow wrinkles and he tweaks the tune of a few strings before trying again. Satisfied with the sound, he slides to the floor and settles cross-legged in front of the fireplace.

The thrum of the strings creates a haunting melody that sounds like the ancient sigh of the wild. Shiro listens how the sound from the guitar merges with the creaks of the cabin and the hum of the wind outside. It feels like he has stepped into a quiet pool of water in the stream of time. Keith looks down to the guitar in his lap and in the light of the fire, his features are sharp, defined by the contrast of orange glow and harsh shadows.

Shiro watches him and _wants_. He doesn’t know what exactly it is that he wants, but he wants it so much that it makes his head spin. He wants to rip the guitar away and bite his teeth into the pale stretch of skin at the side of Keith’s neck. He wants to tear Keith’s clothes off and taste every inch of his skin. He wants to wrap himself around Keith’s body like an overprotective octopus and never let go. It’s so strange, because he doesn’t even know Keith, but he feels a strange connection to him that manifests as an urge to peel Keith’s clothes off and touch him all over.

Keith messes up a chord and bites his lip, and Shiro stares at the teasing flash of teeth and resorts to pinching himself in the thigh so hard it’s going to bruise.

A howl from outside breaks the spell and Shiro blinks, glancing toward the door.

Keith pauses and laughs softly. “Kosmo likes to participate in the music,” he says.

“Mhmm,” Shiro says. He feels like he says that a lot around Keith, to avoid blurting out something regrettable.

Shiro realizes he’s been staring at Keith’s mouth for a good ten seconds and quickly turns toward the fire.

Keith shuffles and sets the guitar on the bed. He gets up and dusts his pants, then walks over to the table to grab the jug of water.

“Tea?” Keith asks, pouring water into a metal kettle. He comes back to the fireplace, sets the kettle on a blackened rack and turns it on its hinges so it sits above the flames.

Shiro nods. “Uh. Sure, thanks.”

Keith reaches to grab two ceramic mugs without handles from a shelf. Shiro watches as he drops tea bags into the mugs and then hands one to Shiro.

Keith passes a jar of honey from the shelf and Shiro sets both his mug and the honey on the floor in front of the fireplace, waiting for the water to boil.

“How can I repay you for all of this?” Shiro makes a gesture that he hopes encompasses everything that has happened. Saving his life, bringing him back here, letting him stay and acting as his nurse and now tea maker—it’s all stacking up to a debt Shiro doesn’t think he can ever pay.

Keith snorts. “You don’t have to pay me anything,” he says. “Any decent human being would do the same in my place. Don’t worry about it.”

Shiro grabs the jar of honey and squints at the label. “I don’t mean to pry, but how can you afford this?” Shiro asks. “All this equipment, having food shipped here, taking care of your wolfdogs…”

“Well, I get some funding for the dogs from a rescue animal foundation,” Keith explains. “But as for the rest, well… I lost my father in a work-related accident and got a lot of insurance money in return.” He looks up, serious. “If I could, I’d trade the money to get him back.”

A silence falls inside the cabin. “I’m sorry,” Shiro says.

Keith shakes his head. “It’s fine, it’s been years. I just wish he was here, so he could tell me some things about my past.”

Shiro raises his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

Keith stares into the fire and shrugs. “I never knew my mother and my dad didn’t talk about her either. But I feel like there’s something he didn’t tell me.”

Shiro gives him a curious look but doesn’t say anything. He wants to ask, but it feels like an intrusion of something so private that he can’t stake a claim on that knowledge based on one day of acquaintance.

Silence stretches out and unfolds in the cabin, filling the space between them with an invisible wall.

They’re saved by the kettle boiling. Keith pulls the rack out of the fireplace, wrapping a woven cloth around the handle and pouring water into their mugs. The wall of awkwardness between them lifts gradually, and Shiro finds himself smiling as he reaches for the tea. He grabs the mug with his left hand, then immediately grimaces and transfers it to his right because the ceramic surface is hot. He holds the mug in his prosthetic fingers and breathes in the tea’s aroma.

Keith follows his movements with an expression of open curiosity. Shiro guesses his next question before he asks it.

“What happened to your arm?”

Shiro looks at the prosthetic fingers wrapped around the mug. “Military service in an active warzone,” he states, not caring to elaborate further. Keith can draw his own conclusions, and whatever he imagines probably hits close to the truth.

“Ah.” Keith nods. “You’re in the military, then?”

“Not anymore,” Shiro says. “Now I’m just a boring personal trainer, working at a gym.”

“Helping people to be the best version of themselves, one squat and green tea smoothie at a time?” Keith’s tone is teasing, and Shiro’s urge to kiss him raw is momentarily replaced with an urge to poke a finger in his side to find out if he’s ticklish.

“Something like that,” Shiro replies with an exaggerated roll of his eyes.

Keith laughs, and the pale expanse of his throat doesn’t look any less inviting than it did before.

Shiro wonders again if he should sleep in the den with the dogs.

-

After a supper of crispbread and peanut butter, they get ready for bed. Keith goes outside to feed the pack and to wash. Shiro envies him, because the water is probably warm by now, heated by the fireplace Keith has been feeding for hours.

Keith comes back dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt that’s short enough for Shiro to avert his gaze as soon as he catches a glimpse of skin peeking from under the hem. Keith has a towel draped around his shoulders to catch the water dripping from his hair. He sits in front of the fireplace and as soon as the hair is dry enough he starts combing through the strands with his fingers. Shiro wants to ask if he needs help, which is stupid, because who needs help with combing their hair?

Keith is so close that Shiro could reach out and touch his arm, but he holds onto the edge of his sleeping bag and stares at the flames so intensely that Keith’s figure slips out of focus and becomes a blurry form at the edge of his vision.

Seconds later, the scent finds him again like tendrils of smoke spreading around Keith. Shiro inhales and suddenly Keith is very much in focus again, holding Shiro’s attention unknowingly as he shakes his head, feathering the drying strands of hair on his shoulders and over his face. The glow of the dying embers paints his skin in warm shades and Shiro wants to lick the base of his throat where his collarbones meet to form a hollow dent. Seconds drag on as he imagines the taste and feel of Keith’s skin, and the _want_ rises in the pit of his stomach again, urging him to close the distance between their bodies.

Keith yawns and Shiro snaps out of it. He reaches to pull his backpack closer, digging furiously inside one of the pockets. “Need to brush my teeth,” he mutters as he rises to his feet and fumbles his way out of the cabin with one shoe on.

It’s completely dark, but there is a small oil lamp burning on a hook outside the door. Shiro grabs it and limps around the corner of the cabin, stopping to breathe in and out for a few times. He looks down at his sweatpants and silently commands his dick to stop being so fucking perky.

He squeezes toothpaste on his toothbrush and realizes there’s no water, so he sticks the brush in his mouth dry. He’s _not_ going back inside to get water while sporting a raging boner.

A rustle from nearby alerts him that there are wolfdogs moving about. Shiro glances around and spots a few pairs of glowing eyes following his movements as he brushes his teeth. Even though he knows they’re friendly, it still makes the hair at the back of his neck stand on end. Well, at least the unsettling feeling of being watched along with the coldness of the night air are very efficient boner-killers, so that’s something to be thankful for.

Stepping inside the cabin feels like being wrapped in a warm embrace. Shiro composes himself and walks directly to his sleeping bag, pulling off his socks before tucking himself in. He can do this. He can survive the night if he just doesn’t think about Keith, sleeping a few feet away.

Then Keith suggests they share the bed, because the mattress is softer than the floor and there’s plenty of room. Shiro’s mind goes _places_ , blood rushes to other places, and he almost whines pitifully before managing a strangled, “No thank you, the floor is fine.”

He lies awake for a long time after Keith’s breathing turns into soft snuffling snores.

In the morning Shiro wakes up first. The small window on the opposite wall lets in enough light so he can see Keith’s sleeping form on the bed. He’s discarded most of his blankets in his sleep, and his shirt has shifted up while his sweatpants have decided to go their separate way and traveled down.

Shiro sees a flat stomach, a jutting hipbone and a trail of dark hairs disappearing underneath the waistband. His mouth goes dry and he gapes mindlessly for three whole seconds, before realizing he needs to get out of here _right now_.

Shiro peels himself out of the sleeping bag and fumbles around, trying to move quietly but not quite succeeding. He limps over to the door and throws it open, stepping out to meet the freezing cold morning.

He barely notices he’s barefoot as he rushes around the cabin and into the washroom. He closes the door and leans on the wall, inhaling and exhaling ragged bursts into the dark space. What is happening to him? Is he going mad?

On the next shaky inhale he registers the scent— _Keith’s scent_ —lingering in the room. A sliver of light filters in around the door, and as his eyes get used to the dark, they feverishly fixate on a pile of clothing left on the small wooden stool.

They’re Keith’s clothes from yesterday. Without thinking, Shiro takes a hesitant step, then another, and then grabs the first item of clothing he can get his hands on. It’s a t-shirt, and Shiro brings it to his nose and inhales.

The effect is strong and immediate. A shudder travels through his entire body like a shockwave, making the throb in his sweatpants downright painful. The fabric emits a mixture of sweat and smoke and that teasing scent that’s been haunting his existence ever since he first smelled it on Keith.

The scent has wreaked havoc in his brain for over twelve hours, and having it right against his nose like this brings on a mindless urge that Shiro fails to resist. He holds the shirt to his nose and tugs the waistband of his sweats down, fisting his cock almost violently while pressing his face into the soft fabric. He leans on the wall, legs trembling, and allows the urge to carry him to the edge and throw him over.

Keith’s scent surrounds him; it makes him light-headed and drowns him under a wave of lust-riddled thoughts about Keith: his scent, his skin, his hipbones and the trail of hair below his navel. The muscles in Shiro’s thighs coil tighter and tighter as if anticipating the upcoming release.

It only takes a handful of harsh tugs. Shiro groans into the shirt and comes all over his fist so hard that the world sways for a moment.

He collapses against the wall, breathing harshly and clutching the shirt to his chest.

When he comes down from it, a wave of shame rushes over him. What on earth is he doing, jerking off to someone’s shirt like a creepster?

He drops the shirt on the pile of clothes like it burns him and then sets out to clean the mess on the floor without stepping into it. He lights the oil lamp by the door and scoops some water to the floor, flushing the evidence of his shame down the drain. Lastly, he splashes his face and then turns the oil lamp off, stepping outside while cool water runs down his neck.

He’s met with a pair of accusing eyes. It’s like Kosmo knows what he did and is judging him for it.

“What?” Shiro asks.

Kosmo tilts his head to the side and lets out a low bark.

“Stop judging me,” Shiro tells the animal. He steps away from the dog and uses the outhouse before going back inside the cabin.

Keith is awake. He’s changed into ridiculous camo pants and donned a plaid flannel shirt in shades of red and black. By all laws of nature, he should look awful or ridiculous.

He doesn’t.

Keith has a fire going and he’s cooking breakfast by the fireplace. Judging by the smell it’s oatmeal and coffee. Shiro skulks in and goes to sit on his sleeping bag like what he just did is written across his forehead, but Keith only smiles and says, “Morning.”

“Morning.” Shiro wipes his feet and starts undoing the bandage around his ankle because it’s soaked through after walking outside and rinsing in the washroom. Blood rushes to his ears at the thought of why he had to rinse the floor, but he keeps undoing the bandage like he isn’t haunted by the shame of his actions.

The ankle is still bruised but the swelling has gone down and moving his foot doesn’t hurt so much anymore.

“Was the floor hard to sleep on?” Keith walks to the table with a pot and spoons oatmeal into two bowls. “Oh, and do you take sugar or cinnamon in your oatmeal?”

“Both, please,” Shiro says. “And the floor was fine.”

“Uh-huh, sure.” Keith casts a pointed look at the uneven floorboards. “How’s the foot?”

Shiro extends his leg and rotates his foot. “I think it’s starting to get better. I should be able to limp back to my car tomorrow,” he says. Tomorrow can’t come soon enough. He needs to get away from here before he does or says something stupid.

As if he hasn’t already done something stupid.

Shiro gets up as Keith motions him to come sit at the table. The floor is cold against the soles of his feet, but he’s pleased to notice his ankle bears his weight without much pain.

Shiro finds it easier to sit by Keith now, which is a relief as well as a source of embarrassment because he can guess the reason why he feels more at ease. His face feels burning hot as he settles on the bench and grabs the spoon next to his oatmeal.

“Coffee?” Keith holds up the kettle.

“Yes please.” He doesn’t look Keith in the eyes.

-

After finishing his oatmeal, Keith goes to the door and is greeted with enthusiastic barking and whining. Shiro grins at the noises carrying through the doorway. It’s probably breakfast time for the wolfdogs.

Keith returns soon with an armful of firewood that he dumps in the basket beside the fireplace. He shuffles around the cabin for a moment, picking up a few things, pulling on his jacket and eventually throwing a coil of rope over his shoulder.

“I’m going out for a walk with the dogs,” he tells Shiro.

“Oh, okay. Are you gonna make Kosmo climb a tree?” Shiro asks, nodding at the rope.

Keith smirks. “Oh, you never know, I might need to rescue some stupid hiker who’s fallen off the trail.”

“Ouch,” Shiro says, slamming a hand on his chest like he’s wounded. “Oh, before you go, I wanted to ask if I can use your laptop? I need to check my messages. I will pay the connection expenses of course.” Along with everything else Keith has done for him. Shiro has been keeping a mental tally, and he fully plans on sending Keith a check for excellent bed & breakfast services. And if Keith refuses, he’ll send a hundred pounds of dog food, because the wolfdogs most likely _won’t_ refuse.

“Yeah, go ahead.” Keith pulls on a wine-red beanie and Shiro’s heart stutters in his chest, because no one should look so fucking good in a beanie, especially with uneven choppy strands of hair poking out beneath it.

“I might be a few hours,” Keith says before stepping out. “If you get cold you can rekindle the fire.”

The cabin feels oddly quiet after Keith and the rowdy pack have left the premises.

Shiro makes a haphazard attempt at rebandaging his ankle and then hobbles to the corner where Keith’s laptop is stored in a Ziploc bag along with those silica beads one usually finds in shoe boxes. It makes sense to store it like that, because the air inside the cabin is pretty humid.

Once he’s figured out the satellite connection, Shiro goes to check his messages with Matt. The notification bubble indicates that Matt has been freaking out, because the number of received messages is in the double digits.

_Dude what_

_You fucking what_

_Are you serious right now_

_You’re telling me you’re at some cabin with no way of getting away from there_

_And you injured your foot?_

_This sounds like the beginning of a horror movie_

_What if the hermit is a serial killer?_

_Shiro?_

_Are you there, talk to me my man_

_Is the foot bad? I mean if you can walk it’s probs not broken but still_

_How are you planning on getting home? I’m looking into helicopters but shits expensive af_

_Answer me goddammit_

_Do I need to come after you Shirogane I swear to god_

The last message was sent only a few hours ago. Shiro grins and types in a response.

_Internet is shit around here, no surprise, so I haven’t been online. Plus you know I don’t have my phone so I’m relying on this guy’s sat connection_

_I’ve been resting my foot, it’s a lot better now_

_btw how’s your dad doing?_

_And the hermit’s not a serial killer_

Keith may be many things, but Shiro doubts serial killer is one of them. Keith is unusual, an exception to the norm. He’s an enigma that Shiro would like to examine closer, in so many ways. _Stop it_ , he commands himself. It’s bad enough he jerked off inhaling the scent of Keith’s dirty laundry, he needs to stop these trains of thought before they leave the station.

Three dots appear, indicating that Matt is online.

_Jesus fuck man you scared me, I thought you got murdered_

_Dad’s okay, we’re back home now and mom’s making him rest_

_So you gonna wait it out or what’s the plan?_

Shiro purses his lips and rotates his ankle. The pain is a lot duller now.

_Might be able to hike back to my car starting tomorrow. There’s that wooden lean-to shelter about halfway there_

_I probably have to camp out there for the night but I should be out of the woods in two days?_

_It’s good I took the whole week off, right haha_

The hike that was supposed to be three days is now leaning closer to a full week. It’s a good thing he planned to take the entire week off anyway, because with everything that’s happened, he’ll be hard pressed to make it back to the city in time to get back to work. Not that Iverson will fire him from the gym even if he takes a few more days off, but it’s a matter of principle. Shiro promised to be back at work next Monday, so he will be back at work next Monday.

The response is immediate.

_You’re insane Shirogane. What if you hurt yourself again then you’ll be out there alone and without a phone_

_I’m too young to be planning my best friend’s funeral_

Shiro snorts. Matt has a tendency for dramatics.

_No one’s dying, I’ll be careful. I’ll call you when I get back and get a new phone_

Matt’s final reply makes Shiro snort.

_Good. Because if you die I’ll kill you_


	3. you were the messenger

Shiro hasn’t felt bored with Keith around, but as soon as he puts the laptop away and spends a moment in solitude, he gets bored. He wanders around the cabin, checking out the stuff Keith has lying around. He doesn’t peek into the wooden chests and boxes because that would be creepy, but he glances at a book left face down on the table and grins when he spots a half-finished wool sock in a basket full of yarn. Keith knits? Well, it’s a useful skill to have out in the wild.

He doesn’t dare to go near the bed, because he knows it smells like Keith. He stares at the bunched-up blankets. The scent doesn’t affect him as much now that Keith is away, but Shiro doesn’t tempt fate so he circles around the bed while exploring.

It’s baffling how Keith’s lingering presence can push him off-balance so badly. He’s been crazy about guys before, but not like this. Never like this. It’s unsettling, like a tingling sensation at the back of his neck that he can’t quite place.

After examining the cabin, Shiro ends up in front of the fireplace, breathing life into the fire that has burned down to glowing embers since breakfast. He feeds a few logs into the pit and pokes around until they catch fire.

He settles on his sleeping bag beside the fire, foot propped up on his backpack and reading a random book he picked out from a plank shelf nailed above the door. Judging by the selection available, Keith likes sci-fi, and Shiro thumbs through a 1950s speculative fiction novel about the consequences of every living creature on earth getting an IQ boost overnight.

He tries to concentrate on the words on the yellowed pages, but soon slams the book down on the floor and sighs. How long has Keith been gone? Should he be worried?

No. Keith has survived out here on his own for years, he’ll be fine. And Shiro has no business worrying about him anyway—after all, he doesn’t even know the guy.

To do something, Shiro tests his foot by pulling his shoes on. His ankle protests being shoved into his hiking boot with the bandage, but when he tightens the laces and stands up he barely feels any pain. He pulls his jacket on and goes outside to do a tentative lap around the cabin. When he stops, he feels a dull ache, but while he walks the ankle seems fine. It bears his weight without a hitch and he sets out to conquer a slight hill near the cabin. Standing up there, Shiro feels confident that he will get out of here no problem. Once he gets past the rougher terrain and back on the marked paths he should be fine, as the trail is smoothed out by years and hundreds of hikers passing through.

Shiro comes back inside the cabin and snacks on a few granola bars, occasionally feeding logs into the fireplace to keep the fire going.

He lies on his back on the sleeping bag and gives the book a second try. The floor is hard, but the warmth of the fire makes him drowsy, and soon he slides the book away and decides to take a nap. Maybe it will help pass the time.

Shiro falls into a light slumber that turns into a vivid set of really weird dreams. In his dream, a pack of wolves chase him around a forest. Then the forest suddenly turns into a mall clothing store where he wades between clothing racks like dense shrubbery. At some point, he thinks a hand strokes his hair, but when he looks up all he sees are feathery ferns growing from the ceiling of the mall as it turns back into a forest.

Shiro drifts to wakefulness and realizes he’s no longer alone in the cabin.

A gray tail taps the floor beside him, and the tapping intensifies when Kosmo notices he’s awake. The wolfdog barks and comes to sniff his face.

“Nnghh,” Shiro says, trying to get away from the sudden influx of attention. “Your breath stinks.”

Keith chuckles softly somewhere nearby, and Shiro turns to look toward the sound.

Keith sits by the table. He’s still wearing the flannel shirt and his beanie, and he’s tinkering with something.

Shiro sits up and yawns, scratching Kosmo behind the ears. “Did you have a good walk?” He glances at his watch and realizes it’s been over three hours.

“You could say that,” Keith replies. “Is this yours?” He holds up a clear plastic bag that contains a black phone surrounded by silica beads.

“Holy shit.” Shiro gets up so fast that his ankle sends a sharp wave of pain up his calf, reminding him to take it easy. He winces and then hops over to the table, trailed by Kosmo. Shiro sits down astride the bench, facing Keith. “I can’t believe you went to look for it. Where was it?”

“Near the bottom, like two feet away from the stream down there,” Keith says, reaching out to pet Kosmo who keeps nuzzling his arm. “The screen is cracked and the phone doesn’t switch on. But I’m gonna leave it in the bag, see if it works once the moisture is drawn out of the circuits.”

“Thank you so much,” Shiro says, awed. Even if the phone won’t work anymore, he might be able to retrieve his memory card contents, and that’s at least something. He feels a flush of warmth passing through his body. “First you save my ass when I was stupid enough to get in trouble and then you go back to search my phone too? That’s just—you don’t even know me, and you’d go through all this trouble—”

Keith looks awkward. “It’s nothing.”

Shiro lowers a hand on Keith’s arm. “No, seriously, thank you—” He then realizes he’s _touching_ Keith and pulls his hand back. “I mean, I don’t know how to thank you enough. But I’ll be out of your hair soon, I promise. And I’ll pay for everything.”

Keith shrugs, looking down where Shiro’s fingers grabbed his arm. “No need. And, uh, you’re not bothering me by being here. At all.” He sets the plastic bag on the table and smiles. “It’s fun to have people around sometimes.”

Keith looks up, then, and Shiro gets stuck staring into his eyes that even in the dimly lit cabin show a slight purplish tint. Keith’s pupils are wide, and he’s so close that Shiro could count individual eyelashes. His hair is wind-tousled, with wild strands curling around his ears and the collar of his flannel shirt. Dried pine needles decorate his beanie, and Shiro wants to pluck them out and twirl a lock of dark hair around his finger.

Keith’s mouth is slightly open, lips curved in a smile. A long pale scar extends from under his right eye and disappears below his jawline. Shiro imagines what it would be like to trace his thumb over it, feel the rough texture. He wants to kiss Keith so bad he can hear his blood rushing in his ears.

Keith leans forward a fraction of an inch. Shiro can smell the forest and the wolfdogs on him, and underneath it, the alluring scent he’s come to associate with Keith.

Shiro leans closer, and the gap between their lips closes in a rush of movement.

As kisses go, it’s very chaste; just a dry press of lips that lasts long enough for Shiro to register that Keith’s mouth is soft and his lips a bit chapped.

Then Shiro’s brain catches up and he pulls back before he can do further damage. He slides back on the bench and lets out a shaky exhale.

“Sorry, I didn’t—” Shiro looks down to his lap, silently counting to ten and trying to think about anything but Keith’s mouth. It’s a doomed attempt.

“S’okay,” Keith breathes out. “I don’t mind.”

“There’s just—something about you—” Shiro shakes his head. He can’t explain it in words, because there are no words adequate to describe what’s going on in his head. It’s a fumbled mess Shiro can’t even comprehend, let alone explain to someone else.

“There’s something _off_ about me,” Keith says, soft as a whisper. “Something weird. Something different.”

Shiro looks up. There is a look on Keith’s face that says he _knows_. He knows about his scent, knows how it drives Shiro up the walls.

“I don’t know what it is. Not for certain,” Keith says before Shiro can ask.

Shiro doesn’t trust his mouth to form words, so he’s thankful for the initiative.

Keith sighs and traces a small notch on the edge of the table with his finger.

“I don’t think mother was from around here. Or maybe she was, who knows, but she wasn’t fully… human.” Keith glances at him as if gauging his reaction. “I mean, that would explain why I have these pheromones that drive most people insane.”

“Pheromones?”

“Some species of animals attract mates with pheromones. It’s the only explanation I’ve found that makes even the slightest bit of sense.” Keith purses his lips. “You have noticed it; this sickly-sweet smell around everything I touch.”

Shiro wouldn’t describe the scent as that. To his nose it’s something wild, untamed. He leans closer without thinking and inhales. Definitely not sickly-sweet. More like a breath of fresh air, pine needles and something that reminds him of wild animals.

Shiro realizes what he’s doing and pulls back like someone slapped him.

“That happens,” Keith remarks. His tone is casual but his posture is rigid. “It seems to attract people like flies. I mean, I’ve noticed it affects you as well. But you haven’t acted on it.”

First Shiro looks away, because he has a vivid recollection of Keith’s lips on his and how Keith’s t-shirt felt pressed against his nose; how the scent latched onto the fabric made him come so hard he almost passed out.

Then he turns to Keith, suddenly horrified at the implication behind the words. “And others have?” he blurts without thinking. Having experienced the effect of the scent first-hand, he can conclude exactly what _acting on it_ means.

Keith remains silent, but the answer is on his face, clear as day.

Shiro’s fingers curl into a fist. “Fucking bastards,” he spits.

What kind of a sick person would force themselves on someone, pheromones or no pheromones? Humans are supposed to be better than that. More advanced than animals; _not_ driven by instinct alone.

“Yeah, well, that’s one of the reasons I chose to live out here,” Keith says, looking away. “Not that many people around. And I guess that’s why the wolfdogs accept me as their pack leader. Maybe I am part wolf, too, you know?” His tone is light, contrasted by the seriousness of his eyes.

Shiro wants to file a formal apology on behalf of every decent person on the planet, because someone made Keith look like he’s joking on the outside while he carries this burden on the inside, and that is not okay.

Kosmo, who has been lying on the floor beside Keith sits up and puts his head on Keith’s thigh like he understands what’s going on. Keith looks down at the wolfdog with a sad smile on his face and pets his head.

Shiro wants to reach out and reassure Keith as well, but it’s no really his place. It’s weird how protective he feels, considering he’s only known Keith for two days. If he can even say he _knows_ Keith, because he doesn’t. They are complete strangers, thrown together by chance and circumstance.

Shiro doesn’t know what or who Keith is, but he knows he needs to snap out of this trance he falls in headfirst every time Keith so much as breathes in his direction. He suddenly has a burning need to show Keith he can be trusted; that some people can be assholes but that there are good people out there to balance it out.

“I’m sorry,” Shiro says.

“Don’t worry about it, you didn’t do anything,” Keith replies evenly.

Shiro’s mind flashes to the kiss and then not-at-all-helpfully reminds him again of the used t-shirt on the washroom stool.

“Well, except almost fall into a ravine?” Shiro suggests in a haphazard attempt to lighten the mood. “That I did do.”

Keith doesn’t laugh, but the corners of his mouth lift a fraction of an inch and he snorts softly. “Is it bad to say I’m glad you fell?” Keith asks.

Shiro grimaces mockingly. “It kind of is.”

“Damn,” Keith says in monotone. “Well, in that case I’m not glad.”

“Good. You shouldn’t be.” Shiro tries to keep a straight face, but he can’t stop the smile from spreading onto his lips.

This time Keith smiles, and Shiro gets stuck staring at his mouth.

He swallows slowly and turns to the bag where silica beads are slowly drawing moisture out of his phone. He can’t afford to slip up again, because he’s not sure he’ll be able to stop, and Keith clearly doesn’t need any more examples of shitty people doing shitty things to him.

As Shiro twists and turns the events of the past few minutes inside his head, he’s not sure which one of them initiated the kiss. Keith leaned forward first, but which one of them closed the gap? And if it was him, does that count as assault? Well, Keith said it was okay and he didn’t mind, but if Shiro compares what happened between them to what Keith implied he’s gone through in the past, it’s possible that a mere kiss doesn’t even register on Keith’s scale of terrors.

That doesn’t mean what happened is okay.

-

Shiro excuses himself to go walk outside for a moment. He wanders near the cabin and eventually makes his way to the edge of the clearing, where a chopping block stands with an axe stuck to it. He spends a good hour hacking firewood, until Keith comes to tell him the firewood stash can’t hold more chopped pieces and he should maybe lay off the axe.

Keith looks sullen as they eat dinner outside, watching him across the firepit, and Shiro looks anywhere but at Keith.

Later that night, Keith makes tea in the fireplace, but the relaxed air of the previous night is gone. The atmosphere is uneasy as they both sip from their mugs in silence. Shiro stares into the flames and counts the hours until he can get a breath of fresh air that isn’t laced with Keith’s tantalizing scent. He tries to breathe through his mouth as much as possible without being obvious about it.

When Keith goes outside to feed the dogs, Shiro inhales through his nose, testing the waters. That cursed scent lingers in the cabin, still affecting him in the worst possible way. It makes him want to drag his beard stubble against Keith’s skin until it’s red and raw. It makes him want to bury his nose in the trail of hair below Keith’s navel. It makes him want to taste every inch of Keith. Shiro slips into his sleeping bag and stares at the ceiling, ignoring the interested twitch of his cock in his sweatpants.

Keith comes back and buries himself in the blankets on the bed. The bed looks soft and inviting, and not only because Keith is in it, although he is part of the appeal.

Shiro can’t wait to sleep on a mattress again.

“Two more nights until I’m back in my own bed, I can hardly wait,” Shiro says. He rotates his foot inside the sleeping bag. “I think my ankle can withstand the hike tomorrow.”

A sigh emerges from the bed. “I would offer to share the mattress, but I get it that you don’t want to come near me.”

“What?” Shiro cranes his neck and gapes at the black strands of hair on the pillow as that’s the only part of Keith he can see. “Why would you think I don’t wanna come near you?”

The blankets shift a bit and Keith huffs. “We kissed, and then you basically bolted out the door after I told you about… the scent thing. It seemed pretty clear you think I’m disgusting. Because I’m not human, or at least not entirely human. I get it.”

Shiro blinks and sits up, horrified. The events of the afternoon flicker through his mind, and yeah, he can see why Keith would think Shiro dislikes him. After sharing a kiss, Shiro heard a dark secret from Keith’s past, rushed off and avoided Keith for the rest of the day. He can only imagine how that looks from Keith’s end.

“Oh, _shit_. No, that’s—that’s not at all what that was!” Shiro shakes his head and pulls his knees up to his chest, hugging them with his left arm. “I was trying to avoid… being tempted. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to control myself. I mean, look at what happened at the table.” He nods toward the offensive piece of furniture like it’s the table’s fault any of this happened. “I didn’t want to push myself on you.”

The blankets are pulled down and Shiro finds himself looking into a pair of disbelieving eyes. “What?”

“It didn’t seem like you needed to deal with any more of unwanted attention,” Shiro mutters, turning to the fireplace and leaning his chin on his knee. He tries not to think what _unwanted attention_ entails, because the thought makes him grossed out and horny at the same time. The wolfdog den is once again starting to look like a viable option for a place to crash.

The fire crackles and pops in the quietness that follows his words.

Then Keith asks, “Who says it was unwanted?”

Shiro swallows, still not daring to look at Keith. “I didn’t—I wasn’t sure. So I figured it was best to… not come too close. Just in case.”

“Shiro…”

Shiro’s eyes widen. He realizes in a rush that it’s the first time Keith has said his name, and his body’s response to the two syllables falling from Keith’s lips is like the tingle of an electric shock coursing through him. He tries to imagine what it would feel like to have Keith call him by his first name, and he has a brief moment he can only describe as the brain equivalent of the bluescreen of death.

Shiro closes his eyes and lets out a shuddering breath, burying his face in his knees. “Keith, please. I _can’t_. What if I can’t control myself, and I—I can’t do that to you.” Never before has he felt such a dire need to run away from something he wants so bad.

Keith is quiet for a second. Then he whispers, ragged and needy, “I want you to.”

Shiro turns to look at him. Keith sits up on the bed, the blankets pooling on his lap. He stares at Shiro with intent before reaching up and removing his t-shirt in one swift move. With his mind’s eye Shiro can see how stupid he looks, sitting on the floor wrapped in a sleeping bag, hugging his knees and staring at Keith with his mouth hanging open like an idiot.

He most definitely is an idiot.

An idiot who mindlessly unzips the sleeping bag and clambers to his feet.

An idiot who crosses the small distance to the bed and lowers himself on it.

An idiot who is welcomed with a soft, warm mouth on his.

Shiro’s ears are ringing like someone fired a gun an inch away from his head. The kiss is miles away from the chaste touch they exchanged a few hours earlier. This kiss is all raw need, open mouths and tongue, and the proximity brings out Keith’s scent stronger than ever before.

They lie on the bed facing each other and Shiro finally, _finally_ allows himself to tangle his fingers in Keith’s hair. The dark strands are messy and soft, and he slides his hand to the back of Keith’s head and gives the hair a light tug. Keith groans and pushes his tongue deeper into his mouth, so Shiro does it again. In response, Keith snatches his own handful of hair at the crown of Shiro’s head, where the hair is just long enough to grab.

Shiro discovers he likes having his hair pulled and he gasps against Keith’s mouth, surprised. Keith pulls harder, forcing their lips apart and kissing his way down Shiro’s jawline to his neck. The scratch of Keith’s stubble is glorious, even if it is going to rub his skin raw. Shiro welcomes the beard burn. Hell, he’d welcome Keith’s teeth on his skin if offered. He wants to feel Keith in every way possible.

When Keith circles back to his lips, Shiro snakes his right hand behind the small of Keith’s back to pull him closer, earning him a small complaining noise at the coolness of the prosthetic against skin. Shiro mutters an apology into Keith’s mouth and combs his left hand through Keith’s hair, bringing his hand to rest at the nape of Keith’s neck and holding him close while their mouths move sloppily.

Keith hooks a leg behind Shiro’s thigh and grinds his hips, and the situation in his sweatpants is as obvious as the one in Shiro’s pants. Shiro feels like his heart flatlines as he feels the line of Keith’s hard cock digging into his thigh, and he pulls back for a few seconds, impatiently getting rid of his shirt and untying the knot at the waist of his sweats. Keith seems to be onboard with this, because he lifts his hips off the bed and slides his sweatpants down.

For a moment, Shiro can only stare mindlessly at the sight the firelight paints in front of him. Keith is lean and muscular, with a long scar slashed across his left thigh and a few more decorating his shoulder. Lying on his back, his hipbones cast sharp shadows, and his stomach rises and falls along with shaky breaths. Shiro’s eyes follow the trail of hair to Keith’s cock, hard and curving slightly upward. He’s fucking gorgeous, and Shiro’s urge to taste him all over returns with a vengeance. He bends to kiss the scar on Keith’s thigh, feeling the smooth skin and the small hairs against his lips.

Keith lets out a low groan as Shiro mouths his way upward, listening to the sounds his movements elicit. Every now and then he glances up to find Keith watching him with a look of raw need on his face. In the glow of the fire, his eyes are dark and his mouth cracked open, lips spit-slick.

When Shiro gets to the coarse hair at the base of Keith’s cock, the scent that’s been teasing him for days washes over him like a drug. Shiro buries his nose in the curly hairs and inhales, and in response his cock twitches almost at the same time as Keith’s.

“God, you’re—” Shiro doesn’t have words for what Keith is. Keith is delicious, lying here on his back like a divine gift for Shiro to explore. Shiro licks his way up to the tip of Keith’s cock, earning him a broken groan from above.

Shiro licks around the tip and then sinks down, sucking the cock into his mouth. He hears a thud from Keith’s head hitting the pillow, accompanied by a shuddering gasp and a ripple of his abs.

The taste is salt and sweat, and the scent intensifies, spiraling Shiro toward madness. He bobs up and down the length, stopping to pay attention to the tip on every upward move, enjoying the way Keith squirms and moans. It’s like Keith doesn’t know if he wants to thrust up to meet Shiro’s mouth or grind his ass down against the mattress.

“Shiro…”

There are those two syllables again, making his heart jolt. But Shiro wants _more_.

He slides up and lets Keith’s cock slip out of his mouth. “Takashi. It’s my first name: Takashi.”

Keith looks at him with half-lidded eyes and bites his lip. “Takashi,” Keith then whispers as if testing the sounds, and Shiro would kill to stay in this moment for the rest of the eternity.

He dives down and sucks Keith’s cock back into his mouth, savoring the taste and moving his head up and down with more intent. He wants to hear Keith say his name when he comes, wants to feel the salt on his tongue when Keith shudders and comes undone. He wants everything and anything. He hollows his cheeks, sliding farther down on the cock until the head hits the back of his throat. It barely registers, but the sound Keith makes does register.

Keith lets out a low whine, then pushes his hips up, chasing the sensation.

“Ah, fuck,” he gasps. Shiro looks up, and Keith looks like something in him is broken in the best possible way, his eyes lust-filled and mouth hanging open. “Please—”

Keith’s hand appears and grabs Shiro by the left wrist. Keith spreads his legs, pushing Shiro’s hand down until he gets the hint.

Aside from the maddening scent, nothing about Keith so far has indicated he’s anything but human. But now, as Shiro slides his hand between Keith’s ass cheeks, he discovers the scent is not the only thing that doesn’t quite fit regular human physiology.

His fingers meet a slick patch of wetness. Shiro pulls back from Keith’s cock, squinting between his legs.

Keith’s face is unreadable, but there is something vulnerable in the way he shifts, bringing his legs closer together.

“I want to see,” Shiro pleads, stroking his hand over Keith’s cock and then lowering it down behind his balls. “ _Please_.” His voice breaks, because he doesn’t know what is going to happen if Keith says _no_. Shiro wants to chase the tantalizing scent down between Keith’s legs, wants it so bad that his cock hurts. His head spins as he struggles to keep a hold of his logical mind; the part of his brain that is trying to rein him in so he doesn’t ravage Keith on the spot.

Keith’s throat moves visibly as he swallows, but then he sits up and turns on all fours, sticking his ass out in the air.

Shiro takes in a shuddering breath. “Fuck, you’re—” Once again, words fail him.

The glow from the fireplace is not very bright, but it’s enough to allow him to appreciate the view. Shiro has seen his fair share of men from this angle, but he’s never seen anything quite like this. The skin around Keith’s hole is glistening, the skin smooth and less puckered than what usually greets Shiro from this viewpoint.

Shiro lowers his left hand on the small of Keith’s back. Keith jolts as if startled, but relaxes once Shiro rubs the hand in circles, slowly moving toward his ass cheeks. The skin is warm under his touch, the muscles beneath the skin firm. Keith is like a sculpted masterpiece, and Shiro _wants_ so much that his mouth feels dry.

“Can I, please can I—” Shiro asks, rushed. Every time he asks he’s afraid of the answer, but he has to ask. He doesn’t even know what he’s asking approval for, but he’s asking nonetheless.

“Yes—” Keith pushes his ass up, offering. “Please. Anything.”

Shiro swallows and slides his thumb down over the hole. The wetness is unfamiliar, as is the flutter of the muscle around the hole, but Keith’s scent is the strongest here and Shiro has never wanted anything so much in his life. He slides his thumb up again, testing the sensation, and this time Keith pushes against it, moaning.

Shiro pulls his hand away, eliciting a whine, but the whine quickly turns into a gasp when Shiro mouths his way down between Keith’s ass cheeks. At this proximity, the scent intoxicates, fills his world and fixates all his attention on this one spot on Keith’s body. He licks over the hole experimentally and somewhere above, Keith moans out a curse and buries his face in his arms.

Jesus, Keith tastes _amazing_. Shiro laps at the hole, taking in the taste and smell and the small, desperate noises his tongue drags out of Keith. His own cock twitches, as if reminding him of its state of neglect, but Keith is priority right now.

Shiro licks around the hole in a tightening circle and finally pushes in, causing Keith to cry out. Shiro stills, for a moment unsure if the broken noise was good or bad, but then Keith begins to move back against his tongue, moaning and babbling for _more, please, more_. So Shiro goes in as far as he can get, dragging his tongue out slow and torturous before moving back in. He gets drowned in a whirlpool of Keith’s scent and taste, as if nothing else exists for him in this moment.

When his tongue gets tired, Shiro detaches his mouth and brings his fingers back to the game. He lines two fingers up with Keith’s hole, nudging Keith to move back at his own pace. His fingers slide in without much resistance, and Shiro groans at the sensation. The slick heat around his finger is divine, and Keith slides back until he can’t get farther. Shiro rubs his fingers in a slow circle inside, experimentally, loving the way the muscle contracts around them. The sensation is like balancing on the edge of the unknown; not quite familiar but not entirely alien either.

Shiro stares, mouth open, at his fingers disappearing into Keith’s body, and he wants—no, _needs_ —to feel that slick warmth around his cock. He needs it more than he needs air.

“I want to fuck you so bad,” Shiro gasps, punctuating his words with a slight curl of his index finger inside Keith.

Keith pushes against his hand. “Yes, fucking please, yes—”

Shiro slides his hand out of Keith and brings the fingers to his nose. The scent is making him light-headed, and he shuffles closer, kneeling behind Keith. He’s vaguely aware that they should use a condom, but he doubts Keith has any of those lying around. At the same time, Shiro also feels a thrill of excitement through his body for being able to experience Keith bare, with no muffling latex in between.

Shiro grips Keith’s hip with his prosthetic, using his left hand to guide his cock in. He’s so wired up he almost comes at the feeling of his own hand on his cock, but he pinches the base and breathes through his nose a few times. He _needs_ to feel Keith wrapped around him, he can’t fucking come now.

He watches, fascinated, as the tip of his cock sinks into Keith. The slick heat engulfs him with slight resistance, and a broken noise rips out of Keith’s throat as Shiro pushes in.

“Fuck,” Shiro gasps. “Okay?”

In response, Keith moves back, forcing Shiro’s cock deeper. Keith is everywhere; his scent all around Shiro like a drug and his wet heat squeezing Shiro’s cock. Shiro feels like he’s died and ascended to another level of existence. Nothing in this world can feel this good, it’s just not possible. It’s an assault to his senses, everything overloading at once.

As soon as he’s all the way in, Shiro places his both hands firmly on Keith’s hips and then pulls almost all the way out before slamming back in. His body sets the pace on autopilot, going rough and dirty without asking. Communication between them is reduced to stuttering gasps and long moans as Shiro fucks into Keith, hard and fast.

Shiro is teetering on the edge already; fuck, he’s probably been balancing on the verge of orgasm for several minutes already. And now the hot-slick tightness of Keith is wrapped around his cock, and Keith is moaning and whining, his scent surrounding Shiro like a drug.

The pressure builds up, and Shiro can only think he needs to make Keith come first. He wants to feel Keith’s release around his cock; feel the ripple and squeeze of the muscles when Keith lets go.

Shiro leans forward and wraps his right arm around Keith’s chest, tugging him to an upright position. Keith follows the movement easily, until Shiro sits back on his heels and Keith is bouncing on his lap.

Shiro holds Keith tightly and fucks into him with small, deep thrusts. He reaches around with his left hand and begins pumping Keith’s cock in sync with their movements. “Keith,” he mutters into Keith’s shoulder, feeling his orgasm looming just a few thrusts away. Keith smells like sweat and sex and Shiro gets an inexplicable urge to bite him.

So he does; sinks his teeth into Keith’s skin right where the trapezius muscle meets his shoulder.

“ _Takashi_ —” Keith groans and throws his head back, shuddering. His cock pulses and he clamps down around Shiro, coming in hot spurts in Shiro’s hand.

The coil that’s been tightening inside Shiro springs free. He detaches his teeth from Keith’s shoulder, pushes up one last time and comes with a broken sob. The release is so forceful that the world goes black for a second, and he’s only vaguely aware of Keith collapsing against his heaving chest.

Shiro leans his forehead on Keith’s shoulder, breathing in Keith’s scent and waiting for his heart to stop racing. Keith shifts on his lap, and the tightening of his muscles around Shiro’s cock makes him squirm.

“Ngghh, sensitive,” Shiro complains.

Keith pulls away and when Shiro’s cocks slips out of him he collapses on his side, breathing heavily.

Shiro sits back on his heels, slowly regaining sensations from body parts other than his cock. His foot sends a stinging reminder that sitting on it is not the best course of action, and Shiro fumbles into a position where he isn’t straining his ankle. His hand is sticky with Keith’s come and when he looks down, there’s a mess of Keith’s slick and his own come on his cock. The sight is hotter than maybe it should be, but his cock is too spent to express interest beyond a slight twitch.

Shiro gets up from the bed and paces to where his towel is drying on a hook on the wall. He then moves on to the jug of water and splashes some on the terrycloth, dampening a corner to use as a makeshift washcloth. He wipes himself clean and then folds the towel so he can use the untarnished side to clean Keith.

Keith follows his movements from the bed with half-lidded eyes, looking thoroughly fucked with his mussed-up hair and sweaty skin. It’s a good look on him.

Shiro sits on the edge of the bed and wipes Keith clean with soft circular motions. Keith hums under his breath, and once Shiro drops the towel on the floor he moves over to make room.

Keith’s body is pliant and warm in his arms, and Shiro pulls him against his chest, breathing in the scent and dropping open-mouthed kisses on Keith's shoulders and neck. Keith's hair is a bit matted at the roots and beads of sweat have left a salty tang on his skin. An aura of sweat and sex surrounds them both, but to Shiro’s nose the mixture of smells is divine. He falls asleep with his face pressed against the nape of Keith’s neck, engulfing himself in the pheromones he’s tried to avoid for the better part of two days. Now that he’s had a full dose of the effects of Keith's scent, he doesn’t know how he can ever let go of it again.


	4. you were the message

The cabin is dim in the morning light, the details and colors hidden in shadows. One small window doesn’t let much light in, but it’s enough for Shiro to stare at Keith’s sleeping form for way too long. There’s a twist of painful longing somewhere deep in his gut, because he knows soon he has to get up and start his long journey toward civilization.

Keith’s mouth is slightly open and his dark eyelashes flutter in sleep while Shiro watches him. What happened the previous night feels like a fever dream, except that Shiro can still smell Keith on his skin, and when Keith turns his back in his sleep, Shiro spots a circular set of purple bruises that forms the shape of his teeth on Keith’s shoulder.

Shiro ghosts his finger above the bitemark, smiling at it. Maybe he should be embarrassed about sinking his teeth into Keith’s skin in the heat of the moment, but it’s not embarrassment he feels. It’s more along the lines of fierce possessiveness, like he’s _pleased_ he marked Keith as his own. It’s a strange feeling, but not entirely unpleasant.

Shiro drops a feather-light kiss on the bruised skin, and Keith stirs and mumbles something.

“Hey,” Shiro says when Keith turns over, blinking with bleary eyes.

“Mmh,” Keith replies, yawning.

“I guess I have to pack up and get going,” Shiro says. “Don’t wanna waste daylight. I need to make it to the shelter that’s my halfway point.”

Keith’s eyes become more focused and alert. His expression is neutral as he nods, and Shiro wonders if Keith feels that same pang of painful longing that’s hammering inside him.

Keith stretches, extending an arm to drag Shiro down for a kiss.

It’s so good that it makes the ache in his gut worse. It also threatens to turn into something more than just a kiss, and Shiro’s dick is more than happy to jump on that bandwagon.

Shiro sighs and uses the last remnants of his self-control to pull away from the kiss. “I have to go.”

Keith pouts. He honest-to-god _pouts_ like a child who got his candy taken away, and Shiro laughs while something in his chest twists in agony.

What a fucking trip this whole hike has been.

Keith gets started on breakfast while Shiro rolls up his sleeping bag and gathers the rest of his belongings. Thanks to Keith providing most of the food during his stay, he should have enough provisions to get him back to the car. Last, he packs away the dirty towel, knowing he probably won’t wash it for a long time, if ever. It may be gross, but it’s a tiny bit of Keith he wants to hold onto.

Keith tends to the wolfdogs while Shiro goes into the washroom to splash himself with lukewarm water and put on his last clean shirt and underwear. Back inside the cabin, Shiro sits down to bandage his foot for the journey ahead. His ankle has a full range of motion and it doesn’t ache so much when he puts weight on it. It’s as if everything is aligned, ready for him to go.

Except for he doesn’t want to go.

To take his mind off the inevitable, Shiro digs his phone out of the bag of silica and is surprised to find it turns on. The battery is almost drained, so he switches the device back off and plugs it in his portable charger in case he needs to use the phone later. Then he leans back and watches Keith working around the cabin, piling stuff in his arms while their breakfast oatmeal cooks in the fireplace.

Watching Keith performing his everyday chores feels familiar. Even Keith’s scent is familiar, like a soft blanket that wraps around Shiro and makes him feel safe. He notices the scent is no longer as prominently at the forefront of his mind all the time. The need to be close to Keith is still there, but it’s subdued, not as painful or urgent than it was before last night.

He gradually begins to take notice of the pile of stuff Keith has dumped on the bed. Canned foods, dog food, a change of clothes, a flashlight and a knife, followed by an empty backpack.

“What are you doing?” Shiro finally asks when Keith pulls a sleeping bag out of a wooden chest.

“Packing.” Keith dumps the rolled-up sleeping bag on the pile of stuff. “You really think I’m gonna let you hike back to your car alone?” Keith casts a teasing glance at him. “Someone’s gotta look after you so you don’t fall into a ravine or something.”

The words may be poking fun at him, but Shiro smiles like an idiot throughout breakfast. He doesn’t have to say goodbye just yet—Keith is going to join him on the trail.

Well, Keith and all his dogs, because the entire pack crowds them outside the cabin and tags along as they start their journey.

At the edge of the clearing, Shiro turns to look at the small cabin with a fond smile. In a few short days, the place has started to feel like home.

Perhaps it’s not so much the cabin that feels familiar, but the inhabitants that come with it. Shiro looks from the cabin to Keith, who looks gorgeous with hair strands poking out from under his beanie again. Shiro restrains the urge to kiss him, because if they start down that path they’re not going to cover much distance over the course of the day.

“How’s the foot?” Keith asks after they’ve walked for a few minutes.

Shiro shrugs. “It feels fine for now. It’s still not a hundred percent okay but it doesn’t hurt to put weight on it.” He carries the branch Keith gave him as a crutch just in case, but he doesn’t need it and eventually it ends up being a toy that elicits and playful competition between Atlas and Red, who both try to steal the stick from the other. They drag the stick back and forth across the forest floor, and Keith has to step in and rein in the dogs when they almost trip Shiro with it.

For the first hour the terrain is rough, but once they get to the marked trails the going gets easier. The trail is trampled smooth and wide by hikers, and aside from a few narrow stretches they can walk side by side. Shiro watches Keith’s gloved hand swinging at his side and considers grabbing it.

The thing is, he doesn’t know if he should. It could make matters worse in the end when they have to go their separate ways.

Keith settles the matter for him by grabbing his hand to halt him. “Look,” Keith says, pointing at a tree branch above.

At first Shiro doesn’t see anything. “What am I supposed to be looking at?” Then he spots the unmoving figure that almost blends into the gray bark behind it. “An owl?” Shiro asks, tilting his head.

Keith nods. “A horned owl.”

“Good camo, I can barely distinguish it from the tree.” 

When they continue down the trail, Keith’s hand is still in his and Shiro doesn’t make a move to shake it off. Kosmo tries to headbutt his way between them, but Keith tugs the wolfdog to his free side. Kosmo obeys, but Shiro feels like the animal is casting grudging looks at him.

“I think he’s a bit jealous,” Keith says, scratching Kosmo behind the ears. “He usually spends the nights inside the cabin but it would have been a bit crowded with all three of us so he had to sleep in the den while you were there. And now you smell like me. He knows what’s up.”

Shiro feels the yellow eyes drilling into him, and a blush creeps up to his cheeks. “I’m just borrowing him,” he tells Kosmo. “Tomorrow he’s all yours again.”

Keith’s fingers squeeze his tighter, and there is a hint of sadness in his smile.

They stop for a quick meal in the afternoon and then pick up the pace to make it to the midway shelter. Not that they absolutely have to sleep in the shelter, but it makes their dinner plans much easier if they have a ready-made firepit at their disposal.

“Do you encounter hikers often when you’re out with the dogs?” Shiro asks.

“Sometimes. We usually steer clear of the marked trails, because people often mistake the pack as wolves and get scared or aggressive.”

Shiro completely understands, because upon first glance they _do_ look like a pack of wolves. He has firsthand experience of that.

“I probably wouldn’t have found you either, but Atlas did and led the rest of us to the edge of the ravine.”

Shiro smiles. “Good boy, Atlas,” he calls out to the wolfdogs jogging ahead. “So, does it ever get… lonely out here?”

Keith lets out a long exhale. “That’s a complex question,” he mutters.

Shiro squeezes his hand. “I don’t mean to pry. You don’t have to tell me.”

Keith shakes his head. “It’s fine. It’s just… At times I do miss people, and being around people. But then again, out there in the city I never felt like I belonged. This is the only place I can be myself.”

 _This is the only place where I don’t have to fight off people who have gone crazy over my pheromones,_ Shiro interprets silently. He can only hope he has left Keith with a more positive impression than that. Even if the pheromones _did_ drive him a bit crazy.

Shiro’s ankle starts throbbing as they chase the diminishing daylight. They stop for a short rest, and Shiro pries his crutch back from Atlas. It’s covered in drool and bitemarks, but other than that it’s still functional. Keith helps Shiro on the other side, and the journey continues at a near-regular pace.

The closeness feels natural, easy, and Keith’s scent is less prominent now. Perhaps Shiro’s desensitized to it, since the effect is not as noticeable as it was the first time he used Keith as a crutch.

“Are you sniffing me?” Keith asks dryly.

Shiro gives him a sheepish look. “Maybe?”

Keith doesn’t reply, but he casts an amused glance from the corner of his eye.

“I’m just testing if it affects me less now,” Shiro mutters. “For science.”

“Mhmm. And does it?”

“Well.” Shiro hesitates. “At least it doesn’t make me pop a boner every three seconds like in the beginning.”

Keith’s laughter echoes across the forest floor. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. It was _bad_. You have no idea of the lengths I went to hide it from you.”

Keith shifts under his arm, grinning up at him. “Uh huh. Like what?”

“Well, I don’t usually sit hugging my knees as much,” Shiro says. “Uncomfortable as hell, but very good at hiding certain parts of your anatomy.”

Keith snorts. “I see.”

“Then there was the, uh, _incident_ with your shirt,” Shiro adds without thinking, then immediately wishes he could the words back. That’s _creepy_ , Keith doesn’t need to know that.

Keith gapes at him. “The _what_ now?”

“It was just the—the scent.” Shiro regrets bringing the subject up. “It was the first morning I woke up on the floor. I, er, I had to rush to the washroom to, uh, get away for a moment. I happened to find a pile of your used clothes. They smelled like you, so I—you know. Not like, _into_ your shirt. But I—I held it to my face.” Shiro hangs his head and grimaces. “Is that creepy? It’s totally creepy, isn’t it?”

“It would be a lot more creepy if you told me this before we fucked,” Keith remarks. His tone is more laughing than shocked, though, so maybe Shiro hasn’t completely ruined the rest of their hike together.

“You wouldn’t have fucked me if you knew?”

Keith looks at him with a crooked smile. “Ehh. I mean, you’re kind of hot so I guess I could have overlooked the creepiness.”

Shiro snorts. “Thanks, I guess?”

“Welcome.” Keith grins and looks away. “And if we’re confessing things, I may or may not have stroked your hair yesterday while you slept.”

“Oh really?” Shiro asks. “Well, glad to know I’m not alone with my creepiness.”

Keith casts an unimpressed look at him. “I hate to burst your bubble but there’s a difference between creepy and, you know, _creepy_.” His expression is deadpan, but the corners of his mouth twitch like he’s trying not to smile. Keith’s arm also remains tightly wrapped around Shiro’s waist, supporting him, so Shiro rests assured that he hasn’t managed to scare Keith away.

They make it to the lean-to shelter soon after darkness falls and find it empty of other hikers, although there are signs of someone having spent the night recently. While Keith piles firewood into the pit, Shiro takes off his shoe and checks his ankle. It’s a bit swollen and sensitive, but it’s nothing compared to the situation three days back.

He watches Keith kindling the fire, and for the first time since the ravine, Shiro feels like he’s on a hiking trip just for _fun_. He gets a feeling that he would like hiking with Keith a lot, and the longing sadness settles in the pit of his stomach again.

“Toss me some food?” Keith calls, and Shiro snaps out of it.

“What food?” he asks, rummaging through both their bags.

“Whatever you can find and feel like eating.”

They end up mixing a bag of just-add-water risotto with some dried meat Keith produces from his backpack. The wolfdogs sit outside the ring of logs surrounding the firepit, drooling at Shiro as he eats. Shiro ends up fishing a piece of meat from his risotto and giving it to Atlas. This turns out to be a mistake, because he finds himself surrounded by six begging wolfdogs in two seconds flat.

“Hey, don’t ruin months of training by feeding them off the table,” Keith scolds, poking an elbow into Shiro’s side.

Shiro looks around the bare campsite. “This counts as a table?”

Keith rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean. They will get food after we eat.”

“Yeah. Sorry.” Shiro grins sheepishly.

Keith growls at the wolfdogs until they back off and stop pestering Shiro for snacks, so he gets to finish his meal in relative peace.

“So, do we wanna sleep beside the fire or in the shelter?” Keith nods toward the small shelter. It’s a wooden structure with a raised floor and three walls supporting a roof. “Looks like the dogs have taken over, so if we want it, we might have to fight them for it.”

Shiro glances at the shelter and finds four wolfdogs lying on the floor in a pile with two more right outside. They have clearly declared the shelter as their den, and Shiro would rather not fight six dogs for the right to a roof over his head.

“Does it look like it’s going to rain?” Shiro squints at the sky where stars blink at him through the canopy of trees.

“Nope.” Keith doesn’t even glance up, but Shiro trusts his assessment.

They roll out their sleeping bags beside the fire, far enough to avoid sparks but close enough to catch some warmth emitting from the pit. Keith sets his sleeping bag beside Shiro’s, and Shiro is hit with the realization that this is their last night together. They get ready for bed, brushing their teeth side by side at the edge of the campsite and competing about which one of them can spit toothpaste farther into the undergrowth.

Now that he’s not constantly blindsided by Keith’s scent, Shiro is able to look at their interactions as something beyond a few days of lust followed by one quick fuck. Over the course of his stay at the cabin and their hike across the forest it’s become obvious that he likes Keith’s company, even if lusting after him has pushed that aspect of their time together to the background.

When they lie down face to face wrapped in their sleeping bags, for a long while Keith stares at him like he wants to say something but the words don’t come out. With the glow of fire on his face, Keith looks almost ethereal, like a wolf spirit in the form of a man.

Shiro reaches out of his sleeping bag to pick a pine needle off Keith’s hood and then strokes an errant strand of hair off his face. Keith looks at him with soft eyes, then scoots close and presses against him, not moving for a long time. His breath falls hot against the side of Shiro’s neck, and Shiro inhales, enjoying being engulfed in the smell of forest and smoke, and underneath it all, Keith himself.

Shiro gasps when Keith starts moving his lips, scraping his neck with stubble and teeth. Keith moves up his jawline, mouthing his way to Shiro’s lips. Keith tastes like toothpaste and chapstick, and his lips leave a beeswax-scented sticky residue in their wake.

If Shiro fooled himself into thinking that Keith’s vicinity doesn’t affect him anymore, he’s proven wrong in a matter of seconds. A sudden need to touch Keith, taste Keith, _claim_ Keith floods his body. He’s getting hard, and his sleeping bag turns into an obstacle he needs to get rid of. Shiro struggles to free himself from the sleeping bag so he can pull Keith closer, but Keith stops him with a hand on his wrist. “Wait.”

Shiro freezes. “What?”

“This might sound ridiculous, and I should have said something earlier, but, uh.” Keith sits up and scratches the back of his neck.

A wave of worry washes over Shiro, sobering him from the scent-related madness in a matter of seconds. Shit, has he inadvertently done something that crossed the line? He swore he’d prove to Keith that there are good people in the world, but over the past 24 hours the line has gotten muddled and he’s not sure if he’s overstepped the boundaries.

Keith wraps the sleeping bag around his shoulders and sits watching the flames with sullen eyes. “You were worried about losing your shit around me, you know? About not being in control.”

“Yeah.” Shiro nods, slowly sitting up and settling in a position that mirrors Keith’s, looking over at the firepit. “What about it?” he asks.

Keith exhales loudly. “Look at this from my point of view. You were affected by whatever _this_ is,” he says, gesturing around himself, “But you didn’t push it until I asked you to. So you’re good, right?”

Shiro grimaces. “I hope so?”

“And like, last night was fun and all that, but then you told me about the—uh, t-shirt incident.”

A flush of heat rises to Shiro’s cheeks and he wants to sink into the ground. He should’ve _never_ brought that up.

Keith hangs his head. “It’s just, how can I know if a person wants to be with me for me, and not because they have an instinctual need to fuck me?” Keith glances at him. “Look, I don’t blame you for the shirt thing. How could I? You don’t have free will around me. No one does. It’s like I’m _forcing_ people to want me.”

Shiro furrows his brow. “Huh.” He hasn’t thought about it from this angle.

“Yeah. So I don’t wanna like, force you to do anything you wouldn’t actually want, without the pheromones. What kind of a person would?”

What kind of a person indeed? It’s clear Keith has encountered people who couldn’t care two shits about what someone else wants, otherwise he wouldn’t have given this so much thought.

“Keith.” Shiro extends his hand and waits until Keith takes it. “I hate to break it to you, but I was eye-fucking you right from the start.”

Keith huffs out a disbelieving chuckle.

“No, really, like almost the second I climbed over the edge of the ravine. You were building a fire and I was trembling in shock and _despite_ the shock already checking you out big time. You were yards away, no way it was just your pheromones or whatever.”

Keith gives him a quizzical look. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I didn’t even notice the scent until we were walking to the cabin.” He recalls the first time he noticed it, leaning on Keith while limping in the forest. “Admittedly, the pheromones may have, uh, _escalated_ things, but that’s because I already wanted you. I don’t think it would have affected me so much if I found you completely repulsive otherwise. Which, for the record, I _really_ don’t.”

Keith’s shoulders slump as he relaxes. “Okay.”

“I have free will.” Shiro glances at Keith with a crooked grin. “I mean, you’re obviously hot but you’re not completely irresistible.”

He’s pretty sure he could resist. He resisted successfully for nearly two days. Which isn’t saying much, but now that he’s gotten the worst urges out of his system, he’s fairly sure he could last at least a week. He glances at Keith from the corner of his eye. Or three days. Whatever.

Keith’s expression turns unamused. He rolls his eyes. “Funny.”

Shiro gives his hand a tug, and Keith follows the guidance, scooting until they’re sitting side by side in a tangle of two sleeping bags, staring into the firepit.

When they lie down to sleep, Shiro pulls Keith’s back to his chest. He presses his nose into Keith’s hood and inhales deep, cradling Keith with his prosthetic. Having an arm that doesn’t feel cold is convenient at times, because it’s the only part he can keep outside the sleeping bag in the gathering coldness of the night.

Even as he drifts toward the edge of unconsciousness, he clings onto Keith like he needs to feel Keith’s vicinity. Strange as it seems, he’s going to miss being teased with Keith’s scent. Perhaps it’s not as much of a sexual urge at this point, but a general urge to be _close_ to Keith, even if it’s just hugging Keith against his chest while they’re both covered in layers of clothes and nestled in sleeping bags. It’s a wild need to possess and to protect, even though Keith doesn’t need either.

Shiro can’t afford to give it much thought, because tomorrow it’s going to be over anyway.

-

When Shiro wakes up in the morning, there is a wolfdog butt three inches from his face. “Morning,” Shiro tells the butt. He’s rewarded with a wagging tail hitting him in the cheek. “Keith, I must say you’re a lot hairier than I remembered.”

Somewhere behind the mountain of gray fur, Keith laughs.

During the night, Kosmo has wiggled his way between their sleeping bags, curling up between them like he thinks he’s a small lapdog. Kosmo’s tail slaps Shiro in the face again, and he groans, pushing it away.

“Ugh,” Keith mutters from the other side of the animal. “This happens every time when I’m out with them, even when I don’t need them for warmth. They wait until I fall asleep and then they sneak in and boom! I wake up with a dog’s asshole staring at me. Well, this time I got the end with teeth, so I’m guessing you have the evil eye over there somewhere.”

“Yup, one evil eye right here,” Shiro remarks. Movement from behind informs him that there is another wolfdog cuddled to his back. As he sits up, six tails start wagging and six pairs of alert eyes follow his movements. “I hope you brought enough dog food, because they’re looking at me like I’m next on the menu unless a more convenient snack comes along.”

Keith peels the sleeping bag off and gets up, stretching. He whistles at the dogs, digging out the bag of dog food that takes up the majority of his backpack.

While the wolfdogs are busy eating, Shiro starts piling firewood into the pit, determined to gather some warmth into his body before they set out again. He sits on a log by the fire and pokes the kindling flames with a stick while he tests the movement of his foot. The ankle feels sore but not unbearably so. He’s not looking forward to walking on it for hours, but his reluctance toward the hike is a sum of things unrelated to his injury. His eyes sneak up to steal a glance of Keith when he returns from the nearby bushes, zipping his pants.

“This has been the strangest week of my life,” Shiro says as they wait for their oatmeal to cook above the fire.

Keith looks thoughtful. “Not sure if it’s been the strangest week of my life, but it’s up there in the top five at least.”

“Oh yeah? Damn, what kinds of weeks have you had before?”

Keith’s eyes look at him, measuring. “Maybe I’ll tell you next time you come visit.”

Shiro’s breath catches in his throat. There hasn’t been any agreement between them beyond the point where Shiro gets in his car and drives away.

“Visit?” Shiro asks. “I’d like that.”

Keith’s mouth slowly curves up in a gorgeous smile and he digs around in his pocket. “Good. So I haven’t been carrying this piece of paper with me for nothing.”

Shiro takes the offered piece of paper. Keith’s number, email and the exact coordinates of his cabin are scribbled on it, and it’s signed off with a capital K and six poorly drawn paw prints.

“Aww,” Shiro coos. “Signed by you and the pack?”

“They like you,” Keith says, looking over to where the wolfdogs are fighting over the last remnants of their breakfast. “I mean, none of them have even tried to bite you. I’m almost surprised.”

Shiro raises his brows. “It’s good you mentioned this was a possibility _now_ when my fingers have already been in the danger zone several times,” he mutters. He recalls the scars on Keith’s thigh and shoulder. Training wolfdogs seems to come with some occupational hazards.

Dousing the campfire feels like the beginning of the end. However, the folded piece of paper in Shiro’s pocket says it’s the end just for now. Nothing in life is certain or even predictable, he should know it after nearly falling into a ravine.

The trail is covered in fallen leaves, as if the trees decided to shed the last of their garments at once. The air has a crisp scent, promising frost in the coming nights. Shiro is glad Keith has his dogs to keep him warm on the hike back home.

Atlas headbutts his hand until Shiro settles for walking with his hand at his neck, scratching and petting the dog as they go. “You really like me, huh?” Shiro says. “First you find me after I fell and now you keep begging for attention.”

“You wanna adopt him?” Keith asks with a grin. “I could live with one less boneheaded dog around here.”

Shiro raises one brow, skeptical. “You’d really give him up?”

Keith looks at him defiantly for a second. “No,” he then says. “I mean they’re complete boneheads, but they’re _my_ boneheads.”

“That’s what I thought.”

The closer to the end of the trail they get, the quieter Keith grows. He moves closer to Shiro until they’re walking within touching distance, hands brushing every now and then. After this has happened a dozen times or so, Shiro grabs and pulls him close by the hand, and since Keith is already on a trajectory toward him, he doesn’t stop there.

The forest stands still around them as Shiro performs the final, lingering exploration of Keith’s mouth, perhaps with more teeth and tongue than is strictly necessary. Kosmo whines somewhere near Shiro’s elbow, and he feels Keith pushing the dog away without breaking the kiss.

Keith is all that exists in this moment; his presence robs Shiro of all logic and rational thought. For a moment he chases a wild dream of both of them turning back and returning to the cabin, living out in the woods without a care in the world, taking care of their wolfdog sanctuary by day and fucking each other in Keith’s bed by night.

It’s a beautiful dream, for some other time in some other life.

Shiro holds Keith by the back of the neck, foreheads touching, for a long time after the kiss has ended. Even in the bleak afternoon light, Keith is fucking beautiful. His mouth is red after the kiss and a faint blush lingers on his cheeks. The tip of his nose is also a bit red from the cold, and Shiro smiles fondly as he plants a kiss on it. Keith squirms and laughs in his arms, and the familiar sense of longing makes itself known in Shiro’s stomach again.

“Best get going,” Shiro whispers. “You won’t make it back to the lean-to for the night, anyway.”

“I think I can manage,” Keith says. “I don’t exactly need a fire to keep me warm.”

-

Seeing his car parked at the end of the trail feels like entering another reality. The car stands alone in the small clearing, covered in dead leaves.

Shiro’s injured ankle is protesting the long walk, and he’s grateful to finally get rid of his backpack that’s been killing his shoulder for the past hour. He limps the rest of the way to the car and drops his backpack on the ground to search for his car keys in the side pockets.

“Wouldn’t it be great to notice right now that you dropped your car keys into the ravine?” Keith asks with a crooked smile, leaning on the car while Shiro rummages through the small pockets one by one.

“At that point I’d just be like, _fuck it_ , and come back with you,” Shiro mutters, pulling open yet another zipper.

“Damn, if I’d known that I would have tossed the keys in myself,” Keith says.

Shiro glances up at him. Keith is smiling, but he sounds like he is only half-joking.

“Ah, here they are,” Shiro says, finally locating the car keys.

Keith sighs theatrically.

Shiro unlocks the car and tosses the backpack in the trunk. Then he walks over to where Keith is casually leaning on the car and pulls him close, inhaling his scent.

“Well, you could always come with me?” Shiro suggests, knowing full well it’s not an option.

Keith snorts and shakes his head sadly. “Unless you’re willing to accommodate six wolfdogs along with me, then I’m afraid I can’t.”

The daylight is dying around them, and Shiro knows it’s time to go. Well, his brain knows it’s time to go, but his body doesn’t get the hint.

Eventually Keith detaches from the hug. “What a strange week, huh?”

Shiro blinks, feeling like he’s about to lose a piece of himself—which is ridiculous, because he’s known Keith only for a few days. It makes no sense, but at the same time it does. “Yeah. Strange week indeed.”

Keith steps back, his hand settling on Kosmo’s neck. “I check my emails every now and then,” he says. “And, well. You know where to find me.”

The last thing Shiro sees in his rearview mirror is Keith, standing at the edge of the forest, surrounded by his wolfdogs.

What a fucking week it has been.

-

When Shiro gets to work the following Monday, Matt takes one look at him and groans. “You totally fucked that hermit dude, didn’t you?”

-

-

-

-

-

_(later.)_

Shiro parks the car at the beginning of the trail and grabs his backpack from the trunk. Stepping into the shade of the trees, he pulls his beanie down and his scarf up, covering almost everything but his eyes from the harsh winter air. The tree trunks are covered in frost and the shaded hollows in the forest floor are decorated with a dusting of snow where the sun hasn’t touched. Leaves crunch under his feet, and the air smells like more snow is on its way.

As he makes his way down the trail, movement from the corner of his eye catches his attention. One by one, six wolf-like figures surround him and start walking down the trail beside him like gray shadows.

A whistle cuts the air ahead, and Shiro smiles as they all pick up their pace in unison, hurrying toward the sound.

It feels like going home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for sticking with me and thanks for the kudos and lovely comments! I hope you enjoyed this last installment.
> 
> I know some of you were curious and waiting for an explanation on what Keith was, and I hope you're not awfully disappointed that I just... _didn't_ explain. For me, that was not the most important aspect of the story, or one I cared to explore in depth. For me this was more about Shiro's journey and their journey together--and Keith's ABO characteristics merely provided background for that.
> 
> Overall, I felt that Shiro would be able to accept Keith being different and not need an in-depth explanation for it... because not everything fits neatly into a box, and not everything needs a label.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ofcopperwings), [pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/copperwings) and [tumblr](https://worldofcopperwings.tumblr.com/).  
> -  
> Thanks to my ever-wonderful beta [thoughtsappear](https://thoughtsappear.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Also thanks to [softspacesheith/forward-pass](https://softspacesheith.tumblr.com/) whose foot injury partially inspired this fic.


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